YOUR  FATHEI:  S  REGULARLY  RICH,   ATNT  HK  ?  "   INQUIRED  MR.  TDOTS. 
"  TB8,  BIE,"   8\ID  PAUL.       "  IIe's  nOMP.KY  AND  SON." 


Doinbey  and  Son. 


DOMBEY 
AND  *  * 
SON   *  • 


By 

CHARLES 

DICKENS 


Author  of 

'*Ouf  Mutual  Friend/ 

^  David  Coppcrficid,'' 

**OIivcf  Twist," 

Etc 


New  York 
AMERICAN 
PUBLISHERS 
CORPORATION 
3J0-3J8  Sixth  Avenue. 


^^a"  zr  ^4 


A'' 

r  'fOOO 


PREFACE. 


I  MAKE  SO  bold  as  to  believe  that  the  faculty  (or  th« 
habit)  of  correctly  observing  the  characters  of  men,  is  a 
rare  one.  I  have  not  even  found,  within  my  experience, 
that  the  faculty  (or  the  habit)  of  correctly  observing  so 
much  as  the  faces  of  men,  is  a  general  one  by  any  means. 
The  two  commonest  mistakes  in  judgment  that  I  suppose 
to  arise  from  the  former  default,  are,  the  confounding  of 
shyness  with  arrogance — a  very  common  mistake  indeed 
— and  the  not  understanding  that  an  obstinate  nature 
exists  in  a  perpetual  struggle  with  itself. 

Mr.  Dombey  undergoes  no  violent  change,  euner  in  this 
book,  or  in  real  life.  A  sense  of  his  injustice  is  within 
him,  all  along.  The  more  he  represses  it,  the  more  unjust 
he  necessarily  is.  Internal  shame  and  external  circum- 
stances may  bring  the  contest  to  a  close  in  a  week,  or  a 
day;  but,  it  has  been  a  contest  for  years,  and  is  only 
fought  out  after  a  long  balance  of  victory. 

I  began  this  book  by  the  Lake  of  Geneva,  and  went 
on  with  it  for  some  months  in  France,  before  pursuing  it 
in  England.  The  associations  between  the  writing  and  the 
place  of  writing  is  sp  curiously  strong  in  my  mind,  that 
at  this  day,  although  I  know,  in  my  fancy,  every  stair  in 
the  little  midshipman's  house,  and  could  swear  to  every 
pew  in  the  church  in  which  Florence  was  married,  or  to 
every  young  gentleman's  bedstead  in  Doctor  Blimber's 
establishment,  I  yet  confusedly  imagine  Captain  Cuttle 
as  secluding  himself  from  Mrs.  MacStinger  among  the 
mountains  of  Switzerland.  Similarly,  when  I  am 
reminded  by  any  chance  of  what  it  was  that  the  waves 
were  always  saying,  my  remembrance  wanders  for  a  whole 
winter  night  about  the  streets  of  Paris — as  I  restlessly 
did  with  a  heavy  heart,  on  the  night  when  I  had  written 
the  chapter  in  which  my  little  friend  and  I  parted  com- 
pany. 


iv;54S903 


CONTENTS. 


CHAR 


i.  Dombey  and  s\,^. .,  ■ 7 

II.  In  which  timely  provision  is  made  for  an  emergency 
that  will  sometimes  arise  in  the  best  regulated 

families ; •/     '7 

III.  In  which   Mr.  Dombey,  as  a  man  and  a  father,  is 

seen  at  the  head  of  the  home-department 26 

IV.  In  which  some  more  first  appearances  are  made  on 

the  stage  of  these  adventures 37 

V.  Paul's  progress  and  christening 49 

VI.  Paul's  second  deprivation. 66 

VII.  A  bird's-eye  glimpse  of  Miss  Tox's  dwelling-place; 

also  of  the  state  of  Miss  Tox's  affections 86 

VIII.  Paul's  further  progress,  growth,  and  character 91 

IX.  In  which  the  wooden  midshipman  gets  into  trouble,   iii 
X.  Containing  the  sequel  of  the  midshipman's  disaster.  124 

XI.  Paul's  introduction  to  a  new  scene 136 

XII.  Paul's  education ■ 15° 

XIII.  Shipping  intelligence  and  office  business 167 

XIV.  Paul  grows  more  and  more  old-fashioned,  and  goes 

home  for  the  holidays '79 

XV.  Amazing  artfulness  of  Captain    Cuttle,  and  a  new 

pursuit  for  Walter  Gay 202 

XVI.  What  the  waves  were  always  saying 216 

XVII.  Captain  Cuttle  does  a  little  business  for  the  young 

people 222 

KVIII.  Father  and  daughter 233 

XIX.  Walter  goes  away 231 

XX.  Mr.  Dombey  goes  upon  a  journey 263 

XXI.  New  faces 277 

XXII.  A  trifle  of  management  by  Mr.  Carker,  the  manager  288 

XXIII.  Florence  solitary,  and  the  midshipman  mysterious. .   307 

XXIV.  The  study  of  a  loving  heart 329 

XXV.  Strange  news  of  Uncle  Sol 34° 

XXVI.  Shadows  of  the  past  and  future 349 

XXVII.  Deeper  shadows 3^S 

XXVIII.  Alterations ■  38i 

JCXIX.  The  opening  of  the  eyes  of  Mrs.  Chick 393 


Vi  CONTENTS. 

CHAF.  PAGE, 

XXX.  The  interval  before  the  marriage . .  405 

XXXI.  The  wedding 418 

XXXII.  The  wooden  midshipman  goes  to  pieces 434 

XXXIII.  Contrasts 45^ 

XXXIV.  Another  mother  and  daughter 463 

XXXV.  The  happy  pair 475 

XXXVI.  Housewarming 487 

XXXVII.  More  warnings  than  one 499 

XXXV]  1 1.  Miss  Tox  improves  an  old  acquaintance 509 

XXXIX.  f'urther   adventures   of    Captain    Edward    Cuttle, 

mariner 518 

XL.  Domestic  relations 535 

XLI.  New  voices  in  the  waves 550 

XLII.  Confidential  and  accidental 561 

XLI  1 1.  The  watches  of  the  night 576 

XLI V.  A  separation 584 

XLV.  The  trusty  agent 594 

XLVI.  Recognizant  and  reflective 602 

XLVII.  The  thunderbolt 615 

XLVIII.  The  flight  of  Florence 635 

XLIX.  The  midshipman  makes  a  discovery 646 

L.  Mr.  Toots's  complaint 663 

LI .  Mr.  Dombey  and  the  world 680 

I  LI  I.  Secret  intelligence 688 

LI  1 1.  More  intelligence 703 

LIV.  The  fugitives 7i8 

LV.  Rob  the  Grinder  loses  his  place 729 

LVI.  Several  people  delighted,  and  the  game   chicken 

disgusted 74  ^ 

LVIL  Another  wedding 763 

LVIII.  After  a  lapse ll'i^ 

LIX.  Retribution 786 

LX.  Chiefly  matrimonial . . . ' •  ■ 804 

LXI.  Relenting 816 

LXII.  Final &a« 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


CHAPTER  I. 

DOMBEY     AND     SON. 


DoMBEY  sat  in  the  corner  of  the  darkened  room  in  the  great 
arm-chair  by  the  bed-side,  and  Son  lay  tucked  up  warm  in  a 
little  basket  bedstead,  carefully  disposed  on  a  low  settee  imme- 
diately in  front  of  the  fire  and  close  to  it,  as  if  his  constitution 
were  analogous  to  that  of  a  muffin,  and  it  was  essential  to  toast 
him  brown  while  he  was  very  new. 

Dombey  was  about  eight-and-forty  years  of  age.  Son  about 
eight-and-forty  minutes.  Dombey  was  rather  bald,  rather  red, 
and  though  a  handsome  well-made  man,  too  stern  and  pompous 
in  appearance,  to  be  prepossessing.  Son  was  very  bald,  and 
very  red,  and  though  (of  course)  an  undeniably  fine  infant, 
somewhat  crushed  and  spotty  in  his  general  effect,  as  yet.  On 
the  brow  of  Dombey,  Time  and  his  brother  Care  had  set  some 
marks,  as  on  a  tree  that  was  to  come  down  in  good  time — re- 
morseless twins  they  are  for  striding  through  their  human  forests, 
notching  as  they  go — while  the  countenance  of  Son  was  crossed 
and  recrossed  with  a  thousand  little  creases,  which  the  same 
deceitful  Time  would  take  delight  in  smoothing  out  and  wearing 
away  with  the  flat  part  of  his  scythe,  as  a  preparation  of  the 
surface  for  his  deeper  operations. 

Dombey,  exulting  in  the  long-looked-for  event,  jingled  and 
jingled  the  heavy  gold  watch-chain  that  depended  from  below 
his  trim  blue  coat,  whereof  the  buttons  sparkled  phosphores- 
cently  in  the  feeble  rays  of  the  distant  fire.  Son,  with  his  little 
fists  curled  up  and  clenched,  seemed,  in  his  feeble  way,  to  be 
squaring  at  existence  for  having  come  upon  him  so  unexpectedly. 

"  The  house  wiil  once  ag-^in,  Mrs.  Dombey,"  said  Mr.  Dom- 


8  DOMBEY  AND  SON'. 

bey,  "  be  not  only  in  name  but  in  fact  Doml^ey  and  Son  ;  DortW 
bey  and  Gon  i  " 

The  words  had  r.uch  a  softening  influence,  tliat  he  appended 
a  term  of  endearment  to  Mrs,  Dombey's  name  (though  not 
without  some  hesitation,  as  being  a  man  but  little  used  to  that 
form  of  address)  :  and  said,  ^'  Mrs.  Dombey,  my — my  dear," 

A  transient  flush  of  faint  surprise  overspread  the  sick  lady's 
face  as  she  raised  her  eyes  towards  him, 

"He  will  be  christened  Paul,  my  —  Mrs,  Dombey  —  of 
course," 

She  feebly  echoed,  "  Of  course,"  or  rather  expressed  it  by 
the  motion  of  her  lips,  and  closed  her  eyes  again. 

'•  His  father's  name,  Mrs,  Dombey,  and  his  grandfather's  ! 
I  wish  his  grandfather  were  alive  this  day  !  "  And  again  he 
said  "  Dom-bey  and  Son,"  in  exactly  the  same  tone  as  before. 

Those  three  words  conveyed  the  one  idea  of  Mr,  Dombey's 
life.  The  earth  was  made  for  Dombey  and  Son  to  trade  in,^ 
and  the  sun  and  moon  were  made  to  give  them  light.  Rivers 
and  seas  were  formed  to  float  their  ships ;  rainbows  gave  them 
promise  of  fair  weather ;  winds  blew  for  or  against  their  enter- 
prises ;  r.tars  and  planets  circled  in  their  orbits,  to  preserve  in- 
violate a  system  of  which  they  were  the  centre.  Common  ab- 
breviations took  new  meanings  in  his  eyes,  and  had  sole  refer- 
ence to  them  :  A,  D,  had  no  concern  with  anno  Domini,  but 
stood  for  anno  Dombei — and  Son. 

He  had  risen,  as  his  father  had  before  him,  in  the  course  of 
life  and  death,  from  Son  to  Dombey,  and  for  nearly  twenty  years 
had  been  the  sole  representative  of  the  firm.  Of  those  years 
he  had  been  married,  ten — married,  as  some  said,  to  a  lady  with 
no  heart  to  give  him  ;  whose  happiness  was  in  the  past,  and 
who  was  content  to  bind  her  broken  spirit  to  the  dutiful  and 
meek  endurance  of  the  present.  Such  idle  talk  was  little  likely 
to  reach  the  ears  of  Mr,  Dombey,  whom  it  nearly  concerned  ; 
and  probably  no  one  in  the  world  would  have  received  it  with 
such  utter  incredulity  as  he,  if  it  had  reached  him.  Dombey 
and  Son  had  often  dealt  in  hides,  but  never  in  hearts.  'J'hey 
left  that  fancy  ware  to  boys  and  girls,  and  boarding-schools  and 
books,  Mr,  Dombey  would  have  reasoned  •  That  a  matrimonial 
alliance  with  himself  viiist^  in  the  nature  of  things,  be  gratifying 
and  honorable  to  any  woman  of  common  sense.  That  the 
hope  of  giving  birth  to  a  new  partner  in  such  r.  house,  could 
not  fail  to  awaken  a  glorious  and  stirring  ambition  in  the  breast 
of  the  least  ambitious  of  her  sex.  That  Mrs,  Dombey  had  en- 
tered on  that  social  contract  of  matrimony     almost  necessarily 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  g 

part  of  a  genteel  and  wealthy  station,  even  without  reference 
to  the  perpetuation  of  family  firms  :  with  her  eyes  fully  open 
to  these  advantages.  That  Mrs.  Dombeyhad  had  daily  practi- 
cal knowledge  of  his  position  in  society.  That  Mrs.  Dombey 
had  always  sat  at  the  head  of  his  table,  and  done  the  honors 
of  his  house  in  a  remarkably  lady-like  and  becoming  manner. 
That  Mrs.  Dombey  must  have  been  happy.  That  she  couldn't 
help  it. 

Or,  at  all  events,  with  one  drawback.  Yes.  That  he  would 
have  allowed.  With  only  one  ;  but  that  one  certainly  involving 
much.  They  had  been  married  ten  years,  and  until  this  present 
day  on  which  Mr,  Dombey  sat  jingling  and  jingling  his  heavy 
gold  watch-chain  in  the  great  arm-chair  by  the  side  of  the  bed, 
had  had  no  issue. 

— To  speak  of ;  none  worth  mentioning.  There  had  been 
a  girl  some  six  years  before,  and  the  child,  who  had  stolen  into 
the  chamber  unobserved,  was  now  crouching  timidly,  in  a  corner 
whence  she  could  see  her  mother's  face.  But  what  was  a  girl 
to  Dombey  and  Son  !  In  the  capital  of  the  House's  name  and 
dignity,  such  a  child  was  merely  a  piece  of  base  coin  that  couldn't 
be  invested — a  bad  Boy — nothing  more. 

Mr  Dombey's  cup  of  satisfaction  was  so  full  at  this  moment, 
however,  that  he  felt  he  could  afford  a  drop  or  two  of  its  con- 
tents, even  to  sprinkle  on  the  dust  in  the  by-path  of  his  little 
daughter. 

So  he  said,  "  Florence,  you  may  go  and  look  at  your  pretty 
brother,  if  you  like,  I  dare  say.     Don't  touch  him  !  " 

The  child  glanced  keenly  at  the  blue  coat  and  stiff  white 
cravat,  which,  with  a  pair  of  creaking  boots  and  a  very  loud 
ticking  watch,  embodied  her  idea  of  a  father ;  but  her  eyes  re- 
turned to  her  mother's  face  immediately,  and  she  neither  moved 
nor  answered. 

Next  moment,  the  lady  had  opened  her  eyes  and  seen  the 
child ;  and  the  child  had  run  towards  her ;  and  standing  on 
tiptoe,  the  better  to  hide  her  face  in  her  embrace,  had  clung 
about  her  with  a  desperate  affection  very  much  at  variance  with 
her  years. 

"  Oh  Lord  bless  me  !  "  said  Mr.  Dombey,  rising  testily.  **A 
very  ill-advised  and  feverish  proceeding  this,  I  am  sure.  I 
had  better  ask  Doctor  Peps  if  he'll  have  the  goodness  to  step 
up  stairs  again  perhaps.  I'll  go  down.  I'll  go  down.  I 
needn't  beg  you,"  he  added,  pausing  for  a  moment  at  the  set- 
tee before  the  fire,  "to  take  particular  care  of  this  young 
gentleman,  Mrs. " 


to  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

*  Blockltt,  Sir  ?  ■'  suggested  the  nurse,  a  simpering  piece 
of  faded  gentility,  who  did  not  presume  to  state  her  name  as  a 
fact,  but  merely  offered  it  as  a  mild  suggestion. 

"  Of  this  young  gentleman,  Mrs.  Blockitt." 

"  No,  Sir,  indeed.  I  remember  when  Miss  Florence  was 
born — " 

"  Ay,  ay,  ay,''  said  Mr.  Dombey,  bending  over  the  basket 
bedstead,  and  slightly  bending  his  brows  at  the  same  time. 
"  Miss  Florence  was  all  very  well,  but  this  is  another  matter. 
This  young  gentleman  has  to  accomplish  a  destiny,  A  destiny, 
little  fellow  !  "  As  he  thus  apostro[  hized  the  infant  he  raised 
one  of  his  hands  to  his  lips,  and  kissed  it  •  then,  seeming  to 
fear  that  the  action  involved  some  compromise  of  his  dignity, 
went,  awkwardly  enough,  away. 

Doctor  Parker  Peps,  one  of  the  Court  Physicians,  and  a 
man  of  immense  reputation  for  assisting  at  the  increase  of 
great  families,  was  walking  up  and  down  the  drawing-room 
with  his  hands  behind  him,  to  the  unspeakable  admiration  of 
the  family  Surgeon,  who  had  regularly  puffed  the  case  for  the 
last  six  weeks,  among  all  his  patients,  friends,  and  acquaint- 
ances, as  one  to  which  he  was  in  hourly  expectation  day  and 
night  of  being  summoned,  in  conjunction  with  Doctor  I'arker 
Peps. 

"Well,  Sir,"  said  Doctor  Parker  Peps  in  a  round,  deep, 
sonorous  voice,  muffled  for  the  occasion,  like  the  knocker;  "do 
you  find  that  your  dear  lady  is  at  all  roused  by  your  visit  ?  " 

"  Stimulated  as  it  were  ? "  said  the  family  practitioner 
faintly  :  bowing  at  the  same  time  to  the  Doctor,  as  much  as 
to  say,  "  Excuse  my  putting  in  a  word,  but  this  is  a  valuable 
connection." 

Mr.  Dombey  was  quite  discomfited  by  the  question.  He 
had  thought  so  little  of  the  patient,  that  he  was  not  in  a  condi- 
tion to  answer  it.  He  said  that  it  would  be  a  satisfaction  to 
him,  if  Doctor  Parker  Peps  would  walk  up  stairs  again. 

"  Good  !  We  must  not  disguise  froni  you,  Sir,"  said  Doctor 
Parker  Peps,  "  that  there  is  a  want  of  power  in  Her  Grace  the 
Duchess — I  beg  your  pardon  ;  I  confound  names ;  I  should 
say,  in  your  amiable  lady.  That  there  is  a  certain  degree  of 
languor,  and  a  general  absence  of  elasticity,  which  we  would 
rather — not — " 

"  See,"  interposed  the  family  practitioner  with  another  in- 
clination of  the  head. 

"Quite  so/' said  Doctor  Parker  Peps,  "which  we  would 
rather  not  see.      It  wouid  appear  that  the  system  of  Lady 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  tf 

Cankaby — excuse  me  :  I  should  say  of  Mrs.  Dombey  :  I  con- 
fuse the  names  of  cases — " 

*'  So  very  numerous,"  murmured  the  family  practitioner — ■ 
**  can't  be  expected  I'm  sure — quite  wonderful  if  otherwise — 
Doctor  Parker  Peps's  West  End  practice — " 

"Thank  you,"  said  the  Doctor,  "  quite  so.  It  would  ap- 
pear, I  was  observing,  that  the  system  of  our  patient  has  sus- 
tained a  shock,  from  which  it  can  only  hope  to  rally  by  a  great 
and  strong — " 

"  And  vigorous,"  murmured  the  family  practitioner. 

"  Quite  so,"  assented  the  Doctor — "  and  vigorous  effort. 
Mr.  Pilkins  here,  who  from  his  position  of  medical  adviser  in  this 
family — no  one  better  qualified  to  fill  that  position,  I  am  sure." 

"  Oh  !  "  murmured  the  family  practitioner.  "  '  Praise  from 
Sir  Hubert  Stanley  ! '  " 

"  You  are  good  enough,"  returned  Doctor  Parker  Peps,  "  to 
say  so.  Mr.  Pinkins  who,  from  his  position,  is  best  acquainted 
with  the  patient's  constitution  in  its  normal  state  (an  acquaint- 
ance very  valuable  to  us  in  forming  our  opinions  on  these  oc- 
casions), is  of  opinion,  with  me,  that  Nature  must  be  called  upon 
to  make  a  vigorous  effort  in  this  instance ;  and  that  if  our  in- 
teresting friend  the  Countess  of  Dombey — I  hcg  your  pardon ; 
Mrs.  Dombey — should  not  be — " 

"  Able,"  said  the  family  practitioner, 

"  To  make  that  effort  successfully,"  said  Doctor  Parker 
Peps,  "  then  a  crisis  might  arise,  which  we  should  both  sincerely 
deplore." 

With  that,  they  stood  for  a  few  seconds  looking  at  the 
ground.  Then,  on  the  motion — made  in  dumb  show — of  Doc» 
tor  Parker  Peps,  they  went  up  stairs  ;  the  family  practitioner 
opening  the  room  door  for  that  distinguished  professional,  and 
following  him  out,  with  most  obsequious  politeness. 

To  record  of  Mr.  Dombey  that  he  was  not  in  his  way  af- 
fected by  this  intelligence,  would  be  to  do  him  an  injustice. 
He  was  not  a  man  of  whom  it  could  properly  be  said  that  he 
was  ever  startled  or  shocked  ;  but  he  certainly  had  a  sense 
within  him,  that  if  his  wife  should  sicken  and  decay,  he  would 
be  very  sorry,  and  that  he  would  find  a  something  gone  from 
among  his  plate  and  furniture,  and  other  household  possessions, 
which  was  well  worth  the  having,  and~could  not  be  lost  without 
sincere  regret.  Though  it  would  be  a  cool,  business-like, 
gentlemanly,  self-possessed  regret,  no  doubt. 

His  meditations  on  the  subject  were  soon  interrupted,  first 
by  the  rugtling  of  garments  on  the  stairgase,  and  then  l?y  thfl 


12  DOM  BEY  AND  SON- 

sudden  whisking  into  the  room  of  a  lady  rather  past  the  middle 
age  than  otherwise,  but  dressed  in  a  very  juvenile  manner 
particularly  as  to  the  tightness  of  her  boddice,  who,  running  up 
to  him  with  a  kind  of  screw  in  her  face  and  carriage,  expres- 
sive of  suppressed  emotion,  flung  her  arms  around  his  neck, 
and  said  in  a  choking  voice, 

"  My  dear  Paul !     He's  quite  a  Dombey  !  " 

"  Well,  well  !  "  returned  her  brother — for  Mr.  Dombey  was 
her  brother — "  I  think  he  is  like  the  family.  Don't  agitate 
yourself,  Louisa." 

"  It's  very  foolish  of  me,"  said  Louisa,  sitting  down,  and 
taking  out  her  pocket-handkerchief,  "but  he's — he's  such  a 
perfect  Dombey  !     /never  saw  anything  like  it  in  my  life  !  " 

"  But  what  is  this  about  Fanny,  herself  ?  "  said  Mr.  Dom- 
bey.    "  How  is  Fanny  ?  " 

"  My  dear  Paul,"  returned  Louisa,  "  it's  nothing  whatever. 
Take  iny  word,  it's  nothing  whatever.  There  is  exhaustion, 
certainly,  but  nothing  like  what  I  underwent  myself,  either  with 
George  or  Frederick.  An  effort  is  necessary.  That's  all.  If 
dear  Fanny  were  a  Dombey  ! — But  I  dare  say  she'll  make  it ; 
I  have  no  doubt  she'll  make  it.  Knowing  it  to  be  required  of 
her,  as  a  duty,  of  course  she'll  make  it.  My  dear  Paul,  it's 
very  weak  and  silly  of  me,  I  know,  to  be  so  trembly  and  shaky 
from  head  to  foot ;  but  I  am  so  very  queer  that  I  must  ask 
you  for  a  glass  of  wine  and  a  morsel  of  that  cake.  I  thought  I 
should  have  fallen  out  of  the  staircase  window  as  I  came  down 
from  seeing  dear  Fanny,  and  that  tiddy  ickle  sing."  These  last 
words  originated  in  a  sudden  vivid  reminiscence  of  the  baby. 

They  were  succeeded  by  a  gentle  tap  at  the  door. 

"  Mrs.  Chick,"  said  a  very  bland  female  voice  outside,  "  how 
are  you  now,  my  dear  friend  .?  " 

"  My  dear  Paul,"  said  Louisa  in  a  low  voice,  as  she  rose 
frcaii  her  seat,  "it's  Miss  Tox.  The  kindest  creature!  I 
never  could  have  got  here  without  her  !  Miss  Tox,  my  brother 
Mr.  Dombey.  Paul,  my  dear,  my  very  particular  friend  Miss 
Tox." 

The  lady  thus  specially  presented,  was  a  long  lean  figure, 
wearing  such  a  faded  air  that  she  seemed  not  to  have  been 
made  in  what  linen-drapers  call"  fast  colors  "  originally,  and 
to  have,  by  little  and  little,  washed  out.  But  for  this  she  might 
have  been  described  as  the  very  pink  of  general  propitiation 
and  politeness.  From  a  long  habit  of  listening  admirably  to 
ever)'thing  that  was  said  in  her  presence,  and  looking  at  the 
speakers  ss  if  she  were  mentailv  engaged  «n  taking  off  imprc* 


DOMBEY  AND  SODf.  \% 

sions  of  their  images  upon  her  soul,  never  to  part  with  the 
same  but  with  life,  her  head  was  quite  settled  on  one  side.  Her 
hands  had  contracted  a  spasmodic  habit  of  raising  themselves 
of  their  own  accord  as  in  involuntary  admiration.  Her  eyes 
were  liable  to  a  similar  affection.  She  had  the  softest  voice 
that  ever  was  heard  ;  and  her  nose,  stupendously  aquiline,  had 
a  little  knob  in  the  very  centre  or  key-stone  of  the  bridge, 
whence  it  tended  downward  towards  her  face,  as  in  an  invinci- 
ble determination  never  to  turn  up  at  anything. 

Miss  Tox's  dress,  though  perfectly  genteel  and  good,  had  a 
certain  character  of  angularity  and  scantiness.  She  was  accus- 
tomed to  wear  odd  weedy  little  flowers  in  her  bonnets  and  caps. 
Strange  grasses  were  sometimes  perceived  in  her  hair  ;  and  it 
was  observed  by  the  curious,  of  all  her  collars,  frills,  tuckers, 
wristbands,  and  other  gossamer  articles — indeed  of  everything 
she  wore  which  had  two  ends  to  it  intended  to  unite — that  the 
two  ends  were  never  on  good  terms,  and  wouldn't  quite  meet 
without  a  struggle.  She  had  furry  articles  for  winter  wear,  as 
tippets,  boas,  and  muffs,  which  stood  up  on  end  in  a  rampant 
manner,  and  were  not  at  all  sleek.  She  was  much  given  to  the 
carrying  about  of  small  bags  with  snaps  to  them,  that  went  off 
like  little  pistols  when  they  were  shut  up  ;  and  when  full- 
dressed,  she  wore  round  her  neck  the  barrenest  of  lockets,  rep- 
resenting a  fishy  old  eye,  with  no  approach  to  speculation  ni 
it.  These  and  other  appearances  of  a  similar  nature,  had  served 
to  propagate  the  opinion,  that  Miss  Tox  was  a  lady  of  what  is 
called  a  limited  independence,  which  she  turned  to  the  best  ac- 
count. Possibly  her  mincing  gait  encouraged  the  belief,  and 
suggested  that  her  clipping  a  step  of  ordinary  compass  into 
two  or  three,  originated  in  her  habit  of  making  the  most  of  every- 
thing. 

"  I  am  sure,"  said  Miss  Tox,  with  a  prodigious  curtsey, 
"  that  to  have  the  honor  of  being  presented  to  Mr.  Dombey  is 
a  distinction  which  I  have  long  sought,  but  very  little  expected 
at  the  present  moment.  My  dear  Mrs.  Chick — may  I  say 
Louisa ! " 

Mrs.  Chick  took  Miss  Tox's  hand  in  hers,  rested  the  foot 
of  her  wineglass  upon  it,  repressed  a  tear,  and  said  in  a  low 
voice  "  Bless  you  ! " 

"  My  dear  Louisa  then,"  said  Miss  Tox,  "  ray  sweet  friend, 
how  are  yuu  now  ?  " 

"  Better,'  Mrs.  Chick  returned.  "Take  some  wine.  You 
nave  been  almost  as  anxious  as  I  have  been,  and  must  want  it, 
I  am  sure." 


1 4  DOAfBE  y  AXD  SOJ^T. 

Mn  Dombey  of  course  officiated. 

•*  Miss  Tox,  Paul,"  pursued  Mrs.  Chick,  still  retaining  hei 
hand,  "  knowing  fiow  much  I  have  been  interested  in  the  an- 
ticipation of  the  event  of  to-day,  has  been  working  at  a  little 
gift  for  Fanny,  which  I  promised  to  present.  It  is  only  a  pin. 
cushion  for  the  toilette  table,  Paul,  but  I  do  say,  and  will  say, 
and  must  .say,  that  Miss  To.vhas  very  prettily  adopted  the  senti- 
ment to  the  occasion.  I  call  '  Welcome  little  Dombey  '  Poetry, 
myself!  " 

"  Is  that  the  device  ?  "  inquired  her  brother. 

"That  is  the  device,"  returned  Louisa. 
^  "  But  do  me  the  justice  to  remember,  my  dear  Louisa, ** 
said  Miss  To.x  in  a  tone  of  low  and  earnest  entreaty,  "  that 
nothing  but  the — I  have  some  difficulty  in  expressing  myself — 
the  dubiousness  of  the  result  would  have  induced  me  to  take 
so  great  a  liberty:  'Welcome,  Master  Dombey,' would  have 
been  much  more  congenial  to  my  feelings,  as  1  am  sure  you 
know.  But  the  uncertainty  attendant  on  angelic  strangers,  will, 
I  hope,  excuse  what  must  otherwise  appear  an  unwarrantable 
familiarity."  Miss  Tox  made  a  graceful  bend  as  she  spoke,  in 
favor  of  Mr.  Dombey,  which  that  gentleman  graciously  acknowl- 
edged. Even  the  sort  of  recognition  of  Dombey  and  Son,  con- 
veyed in  the  foregoing  conversation,  was  so  palatable  to  him, 
that  his  sister,  Mrs.  Chick — though  he  affected  to  consider  her 
a  weak  good-natured  person — had  perhaps  more  influence  over 
him  than  anybody  else. 

«<  Well  !  "  said  Mrs.  Chick,  with  a  sweet  smile,  "  after  this, 
I  forgive  Fanny  everything  !  " 

It  was  a  declaration  in  a  Christian  spirit,  and  Mrs.  Chick 
felt  that  it  did  her  good.  Not  that  she  had  anything  particular 
to  forgive  in  her  sister-in-law,  nor  indeed  anything  at  all,  except 
her  having  married  her  brother — in  itself  a  species  of  audacity 
— and  her  having,  in  the  course  of  events,  given  birth  to  a  girl 
instead  of  a  boy  :  which,  as  Mrs.  Chick  had  frequently  ob- 
served, was  not  quite  what  she  had  expected  of  her,  and  was 
not  a  pleasant  return  for  all  the  attention  and  distinction  she 
had  met  with. 

Mr.  Dombey  being  hastily  summoned  out  of  the  room  at 
this  moment,  the  two  ladies  were  left  alone  together.  Miss 
Tox  immediately  became  spasmodic. 

"  I  knew  you  would  admire  my  brother.  I  told  you  so  be 
forehand,  my  dear,"  said  Louisa. 

Miss  Tox's  hands  and  eyes  expressed  how  much. 

"  And  as  to  his  property,  my  dear  I " 


DOM  BEY  AIVD  SOM  i|| 

**  All !  "  said  MissTox,  with  deep  feeling. 

"  Im — mense  !  " 

"  But  his  deportment,  my  dear  Louisa  !  said  Miss  Tox.  "  His 
presence!  His  dignity!  No  portrait  that  I  have  ever  seen  of  any 
one  has  been  half  so  replete  with  those  qualities.  Something  so 
stately,  you  know :  so  uncompromising :  so  very  wide  across 
the  cliest :  so  upright !  A  pecuniary  Duke  of  York,  my  love» 
and  nothing  short  of  it !  "  said  Miss  Tox.  "  That's  what  J 
should  designate  him." 

"  Why,  my  dear  Paul !  "  exclaimed  his  sister,  as  he  returned, 
"  you  look  quite  pale  !     There's  nothing  the  matter  ?  " 

"  I  am  sorry  to  say,  Louisa,  that  they  tell  me  that  Fanny — " 

"  Now,  my  dear  Paul,"  returned  his  sister  rising,  "  don't 
believe  it.  If  you  have  any  reliance  on  my  experience,  Paul, 
you  may  rest  assured  that  there  is  nothing  wanting  but  an  ef- 
fort on  Fanny's  part.  And  that  effort,"  she  continued,  taking 
off  her  bonnet,  and  adjusting  her  cap  and  gloves,  in  a  business- 
like manner,  "  she  must  be  encouraged,  and  really,  if  necessary, 
urged  to  make.     Now,  my  dear  Paul,  come  up  stairs  with  me." 

Mr.  Dombey,  who,  besides  being  generally  influenced  by 
his  sister  for  the  reason  already  mentioned,  had  really  faith  in 
her  as  an  experienced  and  bustling  matron,  acquiesced  :  and 
followed  her,  at  once,  to  the  sick  chamber. 

The  lady  lay  upon  her  bed  as  he  had  left  her,  clasping  her 
little  daughter  to  her  breast.  The  child  clung  close  about  her 
with  the  same  intensity  as  before,  and  never  raised  her  head, 
or  moved  her  soft  cheek  from  her  mother's  face,  or  looked  on 
those  who  stood  around,  or  spoke,  or  moved,  or  shed  a  tear. 

"Restless  without  the  little  girl,"  the  Doctor  whispered 
Mr.  Dombey.     "We  found  it  best  to  have  her  in  again." 

There  was  such  a  solemn  stillness  round  the  bed ;  and  the 
two  medical  attendants  seemed  to  look  on  the  impassive  form 
with  so  much  compassion  and  so  little  hope,  that  Mrs.  Chick 
was  for  the  moment  diverted  from  her  purpose.  But  presently 
summoning  courage,  and  what  she  called  presence  of  mind,  she 
sat  down  by  the  bedside,  and  said  in  the  low  precise  tone  of 
one  who  endeavors  to  awaken  a  sleeper : 

"  Fanny !  Fanny ! " 

There  was  no  sound  in  answer  but  the  loud  ticking  of  Mr. 
pombey's  watch  and  Doctor  Parker  Peps's  watch,  which  seemed 
in  the  silence  to  be  running  a  race. 

"  Fanny,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  with  assumed  light- 
ness, "  here's  Mr.  Dombey  come  to  see  you.  Won't  you  speak 
to  him  ?    They  want  to  lay  your  little  boy— the  baby,  Fanny, 


l6  DOMBEY  AND  ^0A\ 

you  know ;  you  have  hardly  seen  him  yet,  I  think — in  bed  ;  but 
they  can't  till  you  rouse  yourself  a  little  ?  Don't  you  think  it's 
time  you  roused  yourself  a  little  ?      Eh  ?  " 

She  bent  her  e^r  to  the  bed,  and  listened  :  at  the  same  time 
looking  round  at  the  bystanders,  and  holding  up  her  finger. 

"  Eh  ?  "  she  repeated,  "  what  was  it  you  said,  Fanny  ?  I 
didn't  hear  you." 

No  word  or  sound  in  answer.  Mr.  Dombey's  watch  and 
Dr.  Parker  Pepses's  watch  seemed  to  be  racing  faster. 

*'  Now,  really,  Fanny  my  dear,"  said  the  sister-in-law,  al- 
tering her  position,  and  speaking  less  confidently,  and  more 
earnestly,  in  spite  of  herself,  *'  I  shall  have  to  be  quite  cross 
with  you  if  you  don't  rouse  yourself.  It  is  necessary  for  you 
to  make  an  effort,  and  perhaps  a  very  great  and  painful  effort 
which  you  are  not  disposed  to  make  ;  but  this  is  a  world  of  ef- 
fort you  know,  Fanny,  and  we  must  never  yield,  when  so  much 
depends  upon  us.  Come  !  Try !  I  must  really  scold  you  if 
you  don't!  " 

The  race  in  the  ensuing  pause  was  fierce  and  furious.  The 
watches  seemed  to  jostle,  and  to  trip  each  other  up. 

"  Fanny !  "  said  Louisa,  glancing  round,  with  a  gathering 
alarm.  "  Only  look  at  me.  Only  open  your  eyes  to  show  me 
that  you  hear  and  understand  me  ;  will  you .?  Good  Heaven, 
gentleman,  what  is  to  be  done  !  " 

The  two  medical  attendants  exchanged  a  look  across  the 
bed  ;  and  the  Physician,  stooping  down,  whispered  in  the  child's 
ear.  Not  having  understood  the  purport  of  his  whisper,  the 
little  creature  turned  her  perfectly  colorless  face,  and  deep 
dark  eyes  towards  him  :  but  without  loosing  her  hold  in  the 
least. 

The  whisper  was  repeated. 

"  Mama  !  "   said  the  child. 

The  little  voice,  familiar  and  dearly  loved,  awakened  some 
show  of  consciousness,  even  at  that  ebb.  For  a  moment,  the 
closed  eye-lids  trembled,  and  the  nostrils  quivered,  and  the  faint- 
est shadow  of  a  smile  was  seen. 

"  Mama  !  "  cried  the  child  sobbing  aloud.  "  Oh,  dear  Mama ! 
oh,  dear  Mama  !  " 

The  Doctor  gently  brushed  the  scattered  ringlets  of  the 
child  aside  from  the  face  and  mouth  of  the  mother.  Alas  how 
calm  they  lay  there  ;   how  little  breath  there  was  to  stir  them  ! 

Thus,  clinging  fast  to  that  slight  spar  within  her  arms,  the 
mother  drifted  out  upon  the  dark  and  unknown  sea  that  rolls 
round  all  the  world. 


PROVISION  IS  MADE  FOR  AN  EMERGENCY.  17 


CHAPTER  II. 

IN  WHICH  TIMELY  PROVISION  IS  MADE  FOR  AN  EMERGENCE 
THAT  WILL  SOMETIMES  ARISE  IN  THE  BEST  REGULATED 
FAMILIES, 

"  I  SHALL  never  cease  to  congratulate  myself,"  said  Mrs. 
Chick,  "  on  having  said,  when  I  little  thought  what  was  in  store 
for  US, — really  as  if  I  was  inspired  by  something, — that  I  for- 
gave poor  dear  Fanny  everything.  Whatever  happens,  that 
must  always  be  a  comfort  to  me  ! " 

Mrs.  Chick  made  this  impressive  observation  in  the  drawing- 
room,  after  having  descended  thither  from  the  inspection  of  the 
Mantua-Makers  up  stairs,  who  were  busy  on  the  family  mourn- 
ing. She  delivered  it  for  the  behoof  of  Mr.  Chick,  who  was  a 
stout  bald  gentleman,  with  a  very  large  face,  and  his  hands  con- 
tinually in  his  pockets,  and  who  had  a  tendency  in  his  nature 
to  whistle  and  hum  tunes,  which,  sensible  of  the  indecorum  of 
such  sounds  in  a  house  of  grief,  he  was  at  some  pains  to  re- 
press at  present. 

"Don't  you  over-exert  yourself.  Loo,"  said  Mr.  Chick,  "  or 
you'll  be  laid  up  with  spasms,  I  see.  Right  tol  loor  rul  !  Bless 
my  soul,  I  forgot  !     We're  here  one  day  and  gone  the  next ! " 

Mrs.  Chick  contented  herself  with  a  glance  of  reproof,  and 
then  proceeded  with  the  thread  of  her  discourse. 

"  I  am  sure,"  she  said,  "  I  hope  this  heart-rending  occur- 
rence will  be  a  warning  to  all  of  us,  to  accustom  ourselves  to 
rouse  ourselves,  and  to  make  efforts  in  time  where  they're  re- 
quired of  us.  There's  a  moral  in  everything,  if  we  would  only 
avail  ourselves  of  it.  It  will  be  our  own  faults  if  we  lose  sight 
of  this  one.' 

Mr.  Chick  invaded  the  grave  silence  which  ensued  on  this 
remark  with  the  singularly  inappropriate  air  of  '  A  cobbler 
there  was  ; '  and  checking  himself,  in  some  confusion,  observed, 
that  it  was  undoubtedly  our  own  faults  if  we  didn't  improve 
such  melancholy  occasions  as  the  present, 

"  Which  might  be  better  improved,  I  should  think,  Mr.  C," 
retorted  his  helpmate,  after  a  short  pause,  "  than  by  the  intro- 
duction, either  of  the  college  hornpipe,  or  the  equally  unmean- 
ing and  unfeeling  remark  of  rump-te-iddity,  bow-wow-wow  I " 


,5  DOM  BEY  AND  sou. 

—which  Mr.  Chick  had  indeed  indulged  in,  under  his  breath, 
and  wliich  Mrs.  Chick  repeated  in  a  tone  of  withering  scorn. 

"  Merely  habit,  my  dear,"  pleaded  Mr.  Chick. 

"Nonsense!  Habit!"  returned  his  wife.  "If  you're  a 
rational  being,  don't  make  such  ridiculous  excuses.  Habit! 
If  I  was  to  get  a  habit  (as  you  call  it)  of  walking  on  the  ceiling, 
like  the  flies,  I  should  hear  enough  of  it,  I  dare  say." 

It  appeared  so  probable  that  such  a  habit  might  be  attended 
with  some  degree  of  notoriety,  that  Mr.  Chick  didn't  venture  to 
dispute  the  position. 

"  How's  the  Baby,  Loo  .?  "  asked  Mr.  Chick  :  to  change  the 
subject. 

"  What  Baby  do  you  mean  ?  "  answered  Mrs.  Chick,  "  I 
am  sure  the  morning  I  have  had,  with  that  dining-room  down 
stairs  one  mass  of  babies,  no  one  in  their  senses  would  be- 
lieve." 

"One  mass  of  babies!"  repeated  Mr.  Chick,  staring  with 
an  alarmed  expression  about  him. 

"It  would  have  occurred  to  most  men,"  said  Mrs.  Chick, 
"  that  poor  dear  P'anny  being  no  more,  it  becomes  necessary  to 
provide  a  Nurse." 

"  Oh  !  Ah  !  "  said  Mr.  Chick.  "  Toor-rul— such  is  life,  I 
mean.     I  hope  you  are  suited,  my  dear." 

"Indeed  I  am  not,"  said  Mrs.  Chick  ;  "nor  likely  to  be,  so 
far  as  I  can  see.     Meanwhile,  of  course,  the  child  is — " 

"  Going  to  the  very  Deuce,"  said  Mr.  Chick  thoughtfully, 
"to  be  sure." 

Admonished,  however,  that  he  had  committed  himself,  by 
the  indignation  expressed  in  Mrs.  Chick's  countenance  at  the 
idea  of  a  Dombey  going  there  ;  and  thinking  to  atone  for  his 
misconduct  by  a  bright  suggestion,  he  added  : 

"  Couldn't  something  temporary  be  done  with  a  teapot  ?  " 

If  he  had  meant  to  bring  the  subject  prematurely  to  a  close, 
he  could  not  have  done  it  more  effectually.  After  looking  at 
him  for  some  moments  in  silent  resignation,  Mrs.  Chick  walked 
majestically  to  the  window  and  peeped  through  the  blind  at- 
tracted by  the  sound  of  wheels.  Mr.  Chick,  finding  that  his 
destiny  was,  for  the  time,  against  him,  said  no  more,  and  walked 
off.  But  it  was  not  always  thus  with  Mr.  Chick.  He  was  often 
in  the  ascendant  himself,  and  at  those  times  punished  Louisa 
roundly.  In  their  matrimonial  bickerings  they  were,  upon  the 
whole,  a  well-matched,  fairly-balanced,  give-and-take  couple.  It 
would  have  been,  generally  speaking,  very  difficult  to  have  bet- 
ted on  the  winner.    Often  when  Mr,  Chick  seemed  beaten,  hc 


PRO  VISION  IS  MADE  FOR  AN  EMERGENCY.  \^ 

would  suddenly  make  a  start,  turn  the  tables,  clatter  them 
about  the  ears  of  Mrs.  Chick,  and  carry  all  before  him.  Being 
liable  himself  to  similar  unlooked-for  checks  from  Mrs.  Chick, 
their  little  contests  usually  possessed  a  character  of  uncertaintj! 
that  was  very  animating. 

Miss  Tox  had  arrived  on  the  wheels  just  now  alluded  to, 
>and  came  running  into  the  room  in  a  breathless  condition. 

"  My  dear  Louisa,"  said  Miss  Tox,  "  is  the  vacancy  still 
imsupplied  .?  " 

"  You  good  soul,  yes,"  said  Mrs.  Chick. 

"  Then,  my  dear  Louisa,"  returned  Miss  Tox,  "  I  hope  and 
believe — but  in  one  moment,  my  dear,  I'll  introduce  Uie  party." 

Running  down  stairs  again  as  fast  as  she  had  run  up,  Miss 
Tox  got  the  party  out  of  the  hackney-coach,  and  soon  returned 
with  it  under  convoy. 

It  then  appeared  that  she  had  used  the  word,  not  in  its 
legal  or  business  acceptation,  when  it  merely  expresses  an 
individual,  but  as  a  noun  of  multitude,  or  signifying  many  :  for 
Miss  Tox  escorted  a  plump  rosy-cheeked  wholesome  apple- 
faced  young  woman,  with  an  infant  in  her  arms  ;  a  younger 
woman  not  so  plump,  but  apple-faced  also,  who  led  a  plump 
and  apple-faced  child  in  each  hand  :  another  plump  and  also 
apple-faced  boy  who  walked  by  himself  ;  and  finally,  a  plump 
and  apple-faced  man,  who  carried  in  his  arms  another  plump 
and  apple-faced  boy,  whom  he  stood  down  on  the  floor,  and 
admonished,  in  a  husky  whisper,  to  "  kitch  hold  of  his  brother 
Johnny." 

"  My  dear  Louisa,"  said  Miss  Tox,  "knowing  your  great 
anxiety,  and  wishing  to  relieve  it,  I  posted  off  myself  to  the 
Queen  Charlotte's  Royal  Married  Females,  which  you  had  forgot, 
and  put  the  question,  Was  there  anybody  there  that  they 
thought  would  suit  ?  No,  they  said  there  was  not.  When  they 
gave  me  that  answer,  I  do  assure  you,  my  dear,  I  was  almost 
driven  to  despair  on  your  account.  But  it  did  so  happen,  that 
one  of  the  Royal  Married  Females,  hearing  the  inquiry, 
reminded  the  matron  of  another  who  had  gone  to  her  own 
home,  and  who,  she  said,  would  in  all  likehood  be  most  satis- 
factory. The  moment  I  heard  this,  and  had  it  corroborated 
by  the  matron — excellent  references  and  unimpeachable  char- 
acter— I  got  the  address,  my  dear,  and  posted  off  again." 
"  Like  the  dear  good  Tox,  you  are  !  "  said  Louisa. 
"  Not  at  all,"  returned  Miss  Tox.  "  Dont'  say  so.  Arriv- 
ing at  the  house  (the  cleanest  place,  my  dear  !  You  might  eat 
your  dinner  off  the  floor),  I  fownd  the  whole  family  sitting  at 


10  DOMBEY  AND  SOiV. 

table ;  and  feeling  that  no  account  of  them  could  be  half  sS 
comfortable  to  you  and  Mr.  Donibey  as  the  sight  of  them  all 
together,  I  brought  them  all  away.  This  gentleman,"  said 
Miss  Tox,  pointing  out  the  apple-faced  man,  "is  the  father. 
Will  you  have  the  goodness  to  come  a  little  forward,  Sir?  " 

The  apple-faced  man  having  sheepishly  complied  with  this 
request,  stood  chuckling  and  grinning  in  a  front  row. 

"  This  is  his  wife,  of  course,"  said  Miss  Tox,  singling  out 
Uie  young  woman  with  the  baby.     "  How  do  you  do,  Polly .''  " 

"  I'm  pretty  well,  I  thank  you,  Ma'am,"  said  Polly. 

By  way  of  bringing  her  out  dexterously.  Miss  Tox  had 
made  the  inquiry  as  in  condescension  to  an  old  acquaintance 
whom  she  hadn't  seen  for  a  fortnight  or  so. 

"  I'm  glad  to  hear  it,"  said  Miss  Tox.  "  The  other  young 
woman  is  her  unmarried  sister  who  lives  with  them,  and  would 
take  care  of  her  children.  Her  name's  Jemima.  How  do  you 
do,  Jemima  ?  " 

"  I'm  pretty  well,  I  thank  you.  Ma'am,"  returned  Jemima. 

"  I'm  very  glad  indeed  to  hear  it,"  said  Miss  Tox.  "  I 
hope  you'll  keep  so.  Five  children.  Youngest  six  weeks. 
The  fine  little  boy  with  the  blister  on  his  nose  is  the  eldest. 
The  blister,  I  believe,"  said  Miss  Tox,  looking  round  upon  the 
family,  "  is  not  constitutional,  but  accidental  ?  " 

The  apple-faced  man  was  understood  to  growl,  "  Flat  iron." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  Sir,"  said  Miss  Tox,  "  did  you  ? — " 

"  Flat  iron,"  he  repeated. 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  Miss  Tox.  "Yes!  quite  true.  I  forgot. 
The  little  creature,  in  his  mother's  absence,  smelt  o.  warm  flat 
iron.  You're  quite  right,  Sir.  You  were  going  to  have  the 
goodness  to  inform  me,  when  we  arrived  at  the  door,  that  you 
were  by  trade,  a — " 

"  Stoker,"  said  the  man. 

"  A  choker  !  "  said  Miss  Tox,  quite  aghast. 

*'  Stoker,"  said  the  man.     "  Steam  ingine." 

"  Oh-h  !  Yes  1  "  returned  Miss  Tox,  looking  thoughtfully 
at  him,  and  seeming  still  to  have  but  a  very  imperfect  under- 
standing of  his  meaning. 

"  And  how  do  you  like  it.  Sir?  " 

"  Which,  Mum  ?  "  said  the  man. 

"  Thai,"  replied  Miss  Tox.     "Your  trade.* 

"  CMi  !  Pretty  well.  Mum.  The  ashes  sometimes  gets  in 
here  ; "  touching  his  chest  :  "  and  makes  a  man  speak  gruff,  as 
pt  the  present  time.     Put  it  is  ashes.  Mum,  not  crustiness." 

Miss  To.x  seemed  to  be  so  little  enlightened  by  this  replyj 


PRdVJSIOX  IS  MADE  EOA'  AN  EMERGENCV.  21 

as  to  find  a  difficulty  in  pursuing  the  subject.  But  Mrs.  Chick 
relieved  her,  by  entering  into  a  close  private  examination  of 
Polly,  her  children,  her  marriage  certificate,  testimonials,  and 
so  forth.  Polly  coming  out  unscathed  from  this  ordeal,  Mrs. 
Chick  withdrew  with  her  report  to  her  brother's  room,  and  as 
an  emphatic  comment  on  it,  and  corroboration  of  it,  carried 
the  two  rosiest  little  Toodles  with  her,  Toodle  being  the  family 
name  of  the  apple-faced  family. 

Mr.  Dombey  had  remained  in  his  own  apartment  since  the 
death  of  his  wife,  absorbed  in  visions  of  the  youth,  education, 
and  destination  of  his  baby  son.  Something  lay  at  the  bottom 
of  his  cool  heart,  colder  and  heavier  than  its  ordinary  load ;  but 
it  was  more  a  sense  of  the  child's  loss  than  his  own,  awakening 
within  him  an  almost  angry  sorrow.  That  the  life  and  progress 
on  which  he  built  such  hopes,  should  be  endangered  in  the 
outset  by  so  mean  a  want ;  that  Dombey  and  son  should  be 
tottering  for  a  nurse,  was  a  sore  humiliation.  And  yet  in  his 
pride  and  jealousy,  he  viewed  with  so  much  bitterness  the 
thought  of  being  dependent  for  the  very  first  step  towards  the 
accomplishment  of  his  soul's  desire,  on  a  hired  serving-woman 
who  would  be  to  the  child,  for  the  time,  all  that  even  his 
alliance  could  have  made  his  own  wife,  that  in  every  new  re- 
jection of  a  candidate  he  felt  a  secret  pleasure.  The  time  had 
now  come,  however,  when  he  could  no  longer  be  divided  be- 
tween these  two  sets  of  feelings.  The  less  so,  as  there  seemed 
to  be  no  flaw  in  the  title  of  Polly  Toodle  after  his  sister  had 
set  it  forth,  with  many  commendations  on  the  indefatigable 
friendship  of  Miss  Tox. 

"  These  children  look  healthy,"  said  Mr.  Dombey.  "  But 
to  think  of  their  some  day  claiming  a  sort  of  relationship  to 
Paul !  Take  them  away,  Louisa  !  Let  me  see  this  woman 
and  her  husband." 

Mrs.  Chick  bore  off  the  tender  pair  of  Toodles,  and  pres- 
ently returned  with  that  rougher  couple  whose  presence  her 
brother  had  commanded. 

"  My  good  woman,"  said  Mr.  Dombey  turning  round  in  his 
easy  chair,  as  one  piece,  and  not  as  a  man  with  limbs  and 
joints,  "  I  understand  you  are  poor,  and  wish  to  earn  money  by 
nursing  the  little  boy,  my  son,  who  has  been  so  prematurely 
deprived  of  what  can  never  be  replaced.  I  have  no  objection 
to  your  adding  to  the  comforts  of  your  family  by  that  means. 
So  far  as  I  can  tell,  you  seem  to  be  a  deserving  object.  But  I 
must  impose  one  or  two  conditions  on  you,  before  you  enter 
my  house   in   that   capacity     While   you   are   here,   I    must 


21  JJ  OMBE  Y  AND  iiON. 

Stipulate  that  you  are  always  known  as — say  as  Richards — an 
ordinary  name,  and  convenient.  Have  you  any  objection  to  be 
known  as  Richards  ?     You  had  better  consult  your  husband." 

As  the  husband  did  nothing  but  chuckle  and  grin,  and  con- 
tinually draw  his  right  hand  across  his  nioutk,  moistening  the 
palm,  Mrs.  Toodle,  after  nudging  him  twice  or  thrice  in  vain, 
dropped  a  curtsey  and  replied  "  that  perhaps  if  she  was  to 
be  called  out  of  Lcr  name,  it  would  be  considered  in  the 
wages." 

"  Oh,  of  course,"  said  Mr.  Dombey.  "  I  desire  to  make  it 
a  question  of  wages,  altogether.  Now,  Richards,  if  you  nurse 
my  bereaved  child,  I  wish  you  to  remember  this  always.  You 
will  receive  a  liberal  stipend  in  return  for  the  discharge  of  cer- 
tain duties,  in  the  performance  of  which,  I  wish  you  to  see  as 
iittle  of  your  family  as  possible.  When  those  duties  cease  to 
be  required  and  rendered,  and  the  stipend  ceases  to  be  paid, 
there  if.  an  end  of  all  relations  between  us.  Do  you  under- 
stand me  ? " 

Mrs.  Toodle  seemed  doubtful  about  it ;  and  as  to  Toodle 
himself,  he  had  evidently  no  doubt  whatever,  that  he  was  all 
abroad. 

"  You  have  children  of  your  own,"  said  Mr.  Dombey.  "  It 
is  not  at  all  in  this  bargain  that  you  need  become  attached  to 
my  child,  or  that  my  child  need  become  attached  to  you.  I 
don't  expect  or  desire  anything  of  the  kind.  Quite  the  reverse. 
When  you  go  away  from  here,  you  will  have  concluded  what 
is  a  mere  matter  of  bargain  and  sale,  hiring  and  letting :  and 
will  stay  away.  The  child  will  cease  to  remember  you  ;  and 
you  will  cease,  if  you  please,  to  remember  the  child." 

Mrs.  Toodle,  with  a  little  more  color  in  her  cheeks  than 
she  had  had  before,  said  "  she  hoped  she  knew  her  place." 

"  I  hope  you  do,  Richards,"  said  Mr.  Dombey.  "I  have 
no  doubt  you  know  it  very  well.  Indeed  it  is  so  plain  and  ob- 
vious that  it  could  hardly  be  otherwise.  Louisa,  my  dear,  ar- 
range with  Richards  about  money,  and  let  her  have  it  when 
and  how  she  pleases.  Mr.  what's-your-name,  a  word  with  you, 
if  you  please  !  " 

Thus  arrested  on  the  threshold  as  he  was  following  his  wife 
out  of  the  room,  Toodle  returned  and  confronted  Mr.  Dombey 
alone.  He  was  a  strong,  loose,  round-shouldered,  shuffling, 
shaggy  fellow,  on  whom  his  clothes  sat  negligently  :  with  a 
good  deal  of  hair  and  whisker,  deepened  in  its  natural  tint 
perhaps  by  smoke  and  coal-dust  :  hard  knotty  hands  :  and  a 
pcjuarc  forehead,  as  coarse  in  grain  as  the  bark  of  an  oak.     ^ 


PROVISION  IS  MADE  FOR  AN  EMERGENCY.  23 

thorough  contrast  in  all  respects  to  Mr,  Dombey,  who  was  one 
o£  those  close-shaved  close-cut  moneyed  gentlemen  who  are 
glossy  and  crisp  like  new  bank-notes,  and  who  seem  to  be  arti 
ficially  braced  and  tightened  as  by  the  stimulating  action  ot 
golden  shower-baths. 

"  You  have  a  son,  I  believe  ?  "  said  Mr.  Dombey.  _ 

"  Four  on  'em.  Sir.     Four  hims  and  a  her.     All  alive  I '' 

"  Why,  it's  as  much  as  you  can  afford  to  keep  them  I  "  said 
Mr.  Dombey. 

"  I  couldn't  hardly  afford  but  one  thing  in  the  world  less, 
Sir." 

"  What  is  that  ?  " 

*' To  lose 'em,  Sir." 

**  Can  you  read  ? "  asked  Mr.  Dombey. 

*'Why,  not  partick'ler,  Sir." 

*'  Write  ?  " 

*'  With  chalk.  Sir  ?  " 

*'  With  anything  ?  " 

"  I  could  make  shift  to  chalk  a  little  bit,  I  think,  il  I  was 
put  to  it,"  said  Toodle  after  some  reflection. 

"And  yet,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "you  are  two  or  three  and 
thirty,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"Thereabouts,  I  suppose.  Sir,"  answered  Toodle,  after 
more  reflection. 

"  Then  why  don't  you  learn  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  So  I'm  a  going  to,  Sir.  One  o£  my  little  boys  is  a  going  to 
learn  me,  when  he's  old  enough,  and  been  to  school  himself." 

"  Well  !  "  said  Mr.  Dombey,  after  looking  at  him  atten- 
tively, and  with  no  great  favor,  as  he  stood  gazing  round 
the  room  (principally  round  the  ceiling)  and  still  drawing  his 
hand  across  and  across  his  mouth.  "  You  heard  what  I  said 
to  your  wife  just  now  ? " 

"  Polly  heerd  it,"  said  Toodle,  jerking  his  hat  over  his 
shoulder  in  the  direction  of  the  door,  with  an  air  of  perfect  con 
fidence  in  his  better  half.     "  It's  all  right." 

"  As  you  appear  to  leave  everything  to  her,"  said  Mr.  Dom- 
bey, frustrated  in  his  intention  of  impressing  his  views  still 
more  distinctly  on  the  husband,  as  the  stronger  character,  "  I 
suppose  it  is  of  no  use  my  saying  anything  to  you." 

"  Not  a  bit,"  said  Toodle.  "  Polly  heerd  it.  She's  awake, 
Sir." 

"  I  won't  detain  you  any  longer  then,"  returned  Mr.  Dom* 
bey  disappointed.     "  Where  have  you  worked  all  your  life  ?  '* 

"  Most'y  underground,  Sir,  'till  I  got  married.     I  come  to 


H 


DOM  BE  Y  AND  SOI^. 


the  level  then.  I'm  a  going  on  one  of  these  here  railroad! 
when  they  comes  into  full  play." 

As  the  last  straw  breaks  the  laden  camel's  back,  this  piece 
of  underground  information  crushed  the  sinking  spirits  of  Mr. 
Dombey.  He  motioned  his  child's  foster-father  to  the  door, 
who  departed  by  no  means  unwillingly  ;  and  then  turning  the 
'key,  paced  up  and  down  the  room  in  solitary  wretchedness. 
For  all  his  starched,  impenetrable  dignity  and  composure,  he 
wiped  blinding  tears  from  his  eyes  as  he  did  so ;  and  often 
said,  with  an  emotion  of  which  he  would  not,  for  the  world, 
have  had  a  witness,  "  Poor  little  fellow  !  " 

It  may  have  been  characteristic  of  Mr.  Dombey's  pride, 
that  he  pitied  himself  through  the  child.  Not  poor  me.  Not 
poor  widower,  confiding  by  constraint  in  the  wife  of  an  ignor- 
ant Hind  who  has  been  working  '  mostly  underground  '  all  his 
life,  and  yet  at  whose  door  Death  had  never  knocked,  and  at 
whose  poor  table  four  sons  daily  sit — but  poor  little  fellow  ! 

Those  words  being  on  his  lips,  it  occurred  to  him — and  it 
is  an  instance  of  the  strong  attraction  with  which  his  hopes 
and  fears  and  all  his  thoughts  were  tending  to  one  centre — thaf 
a  great  temptation  was  being  placed  in  this  woman's  way.  Her 
infant  was  a  boy  too.  Now,  would  it  be  possible  for  her  to 
change  them  ? 

Though  he  was  soon  satisfied  that  he  had  dismissed  the 
idea  as  romantic  and  unlikely — though  possible,  there  was  no 
denying — he  could  not  help  pursuing  it  so  far  as  to  entertain 
within  himself  a  picture  of  what  his  condition  would  be,  if  he 
should  discover  such  an  imposture  when  he  was  grown  old. 
Whether  a  man  so  situated,  would  be  able  to  pluck  away  the 
result  of  so  many  years  of  usage,  confidence,  and  belief,  from 
the  impostor,  and  endow  a  stranger  with  it  ? 

As  his  unusual  emotion  subsided,  these  misgivings  gradu- 
ally melted  away,  though  so  much  of  their  shadow  remained 
behind,  that  he  was  constant  in  his  resolution  to  look  closely 
after  Richards  himself,  without  appearing  to  do  so.  Being 
now  in  an  easier  frame  of  mind,  he  regarded  the  woman's  sta- 
tion as  rather  an  advantageous  circumstance  than  otherwise, 
by  placing,  in  itself,  a  broad  distance  between  her  and  the 
child,  and  rendering  their  separation  easy  and  natural. 

Meanwhile  terms  were  ratified  and  agreed  upon  between 
Mrs.  Chick  and  Richards,  with  the  assistance  of  Miss  Tox ; 
and  Richards  being  with  much  ceremony  invested  with  the 
Dombey  baby,  as  if  it  were  an  Order,  resigned  her  own,  with 
many  tears  and  kisses,  to  Jemima.  Glasses  of  wine  were  Uien 
|iro/Jnc«d  to  ?UStair  the  drooping  sj^rits  of  U>t  f^wry. 


PROViSTOM  IS  MADE  t'OR  AM  EMERCENCV.  25 

"  You'll  take  a  glass  yourself,  Sir,  won't  you  ? "  said  Miss 
Tox,  as  Toodle  appeared. 

"Thankee,  Mum,"  said  Toodle,  "since  you  are  suppress- 
ing." 

"  And  you're  very  glad  to  leave  your  dear  good  wife  in  such 
a  comfortable  home,  ain't  you.  Sir  ?  "  said  Miss  Tox,  nodding 
and  winking  at  him  stealthily. 

"  No,  Mum,"  said  Toodle.  "  Here's  wishing  of  her  back 
again." 

Polly  cried  more  than  ever  at  this.  So  Mrs.  Chick,  who 
had  her  matronly  apprehensions  that  this  indulgence  in  grief 
might  be  prejudicial  to  the  little  Dombey  ("  acid,  indeed,"  she 
whispered  Miss  Tox),  hastened  to  the  rescue. 

"  Your  little  child  will  thrive  charmingly  with  your  sister 
Jemima  Richards,"  said  Mrs.  Chick  ;  "  and  you  have  only  to 
make  an  effort — this  is  a  world  of  effort,  you  know,  Richards 
— to  be  very  happy  indeed.  You  have  been  already  measured 
for  your  mourning,  haven't  you,  Richards  ?  " 

"  Ye — es,  Ma'am,"  sobbed  Polly. 

"  And  it'll  fit  beautifully,  I  know,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  "  for 
the  same  young  person  has  made  me  many  dresses.  The  very 
best  materials,  too  !  " 

"  Lor,  you'll  be  so  smart,"  said  Miss  Tox,  "  that  your  hus- 
hand  won't  know  you  ;  will  you,  Sir  ?  " 

"  I  should  know  her,"  said  Toodle,  gruffly,  "  anyhows  and 
anywheres." 

Toodle  was  evidently  not  to  be  bought  over. 

"As  to  living,  Richards,  you  know,"  pursued  Mrs.  Chick, 
"why  the  very  best  of  everything  will  be  at  your  disposal. 
You  will  order  your  little  dinner  every  day  ;  and  anything  you 
take  a  fancy  to,  I'm  sure  will  be  as  readily  provided  as  if  you 
were  a  Lady." 

"  Yes,  to  be  sure !  "  said  Miss  Tox,  keeping  up  the  ball 
with  great  sympathy.  "  And  as  to  porter  ! — quite  unlimited, 
will  it  not,  Louisa  ?  " 

"  Oh,  certainly  !  "  returned  Mrs.  Chick  in  the  same  tone. 
"  With  a  little  abstinence,  you  know,  my  dear,  in  point  of  vege- 
tables." 

"  And  pickles,  perhaps,"  suggested  Miss  Tox. 
"With  such  exceptions,"  said  Louisa,  "she'll  consult  her 
choice  entirely,  and  be  under  no  restraint  at  all,  my  mw^. 

"  And  then,  of  course,  you  know,"  said  Miss  Tox,  "  how 
ever  fond  she  is  of  her  own  dear  little  child— and  I'm  sure, 
Louisa,  you  don't  blame  her  for  being  fond  of  it  ?  " 


26  DOMBEY  AND  SOI^. 

"  Oh  no  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Chick,  benignantly. 

"  Still,"  resumed  Miss  Tox,  "  she  naturally  must  be  inter- 
ested in  her  young  charge,  and  must  consider  it  a  privilege  to 
see  a  little  cherub  closely  connected  with  the  superior  classes, 
gradually  unfolding  itself  from  day  to  day  at  one  common  foun- 
tain.    Is  it  not  so,  Louisa  ?  " 

"  Most  undoubtedly !  "  said  Mrs.  Chick.  "  You  see,  my 
love,  she's  already  quite  contented  and  comfortable,  and  means 
to  say  good-by  to  her  sister  Jemima  and  her  little  pets,  and 
her  good  honest  husband,  with  a  light  heart  and  a  smile  ,  don't 
she,  my  dear !  " 

"  Oh  yes  !  "  cried  Miss  Tox.     "  To  be  sure  she  does  !  " 

Notwithstanding  which,  however,  poor  Polly  embraced 
them  all  round  in  great  distress,  and  finally  ran  away  to  avoid 
any  more  particular  leave-taking  between  herself  and  the  chil- 
dren. But  the  stratagem  hardly  succeeded  as  well  as  it  de- 
served ;  for  the  smallest  boy  but  one  divining  her  intent,  im- 
mediately began  swarming  up  stairs  after  her — if  that  word  of 
doubtful  etymology  be  admissible — on  his  arms  and  legs 
while  the  eldest  (known  in  the  family  by  the  name  of  Biler,  in 
remembrance  of  the  steam  engine)  beat  a  demoniacal  tattoo  with 
his  boots,  expressive  of  grief ;  in  which  he  was  joined  by  the 
rest  of  the  family. 

A  quantity  of  oranges  and  halfpence  thrust  indiscriminately 
on  each  young  Toodle,  checked  the  first  violence  of  their  re- 
gret, and  the  family  were  speedily  transported  to  their  own 
home,  by  means  of  the  hackney-coach  kept  in  waiting  for  that 
purpose.  The  children,  under  the  guardianship  of  Jemima, 
blocked  up  the  window,  and  dropped  out  oranges  and  half- 
pence all  the  way  along.  Mr.  Toodle  himself  preferred  to 
ride  behind  among  the  spikes,  as  being  the  mode  of  convey- 
ance to  which  he  was  best  accustomed. 


CHAPTER  III. 

IN  WHICH  MR.  DOMBEV,  AS   A    MAN   AND   A    FATHER,  IS    SEEN  AT 
THE  HEAD  OF  THE  HOME-DEPARTMENT. 

The  funeral  of  the  deceased  lady  having  been  "  performed  " 
tc  the  entire  satisfaction  of  the  undertaker,  as  well  as  of  the 
neighborhood  at  large,  which  is  generally  disposed  to  be  cap 
tious  on  such  a  point,  and  is  prone  to  take  offence  at  any  omi^ 


MR.  DOME EY  AS  A  MAM  AND  A  FATHEk.  2^ 

sions  or  short-comings  in  the  ceremonies,  the  various  members 
of  Mr.  Dombey's  household  subsided  into  their  several  places 
in  the  domestic  system.  That  small  world,  like  the  great  one 
out  of  doors,  had  the  capacity  of  easily  forgetting  its  dead ; 
and  when  the  cook  had  said  she  was  a  quiet-tempered  lady, 
and  the  house-keeper  had  said  it  was  the  common  lot,  and  the 
butler  had  said  who'd  have  thought  it,  and  the  housemaid  had 
said  she  couldn't  hardly  believe  it,  and  the  footman  had  said 
it  seemed  exactly  like  a  dream,  they  had  quite  worn  the  sub- 
ject out,  and  began  to  think  their  mourning  was  wearing  rusty 
too. 

On  Richards,  who  was  established  up  stairs  in  a  state  of 
honorable  captivity,  the  dawn  of  her  new  life  seemed  to  break 
cold  and  gray.  Mr,  Dombey's  house  was  a  large  one,  on  the 
shady  side  of  a  tall,  dark,  dreadfully  genteel  street  in  the  le-. 
gion  between  Portland  Place  and  Bryanstone  Square.  It 
was  a  corner  house,  with  great  wide  areas  containing  cellars 
frowned  upon  by  barred  windows,  and  leered  at  by  crooked- 
eyed  doors  leading  to  dustbins.  It  was  a  house  of  dismal 
state,  with  a  circular  back  to  it.  containing  a  whole  suit  of 
drawing-rooms  looking  upon  a  gravelled  yard,  where  two  gaunt 
trees,  with  blackened  trunks  and  branches,  rattled  rather  than 
rustled,  their  leaves  vvere  so  smoke-dried.  The  summer  sun 
was  never  on  the  street,  but  in  the  morning  about  breakfast- 
time,  when  it  came  with  the  water  carts  and  the  old  clothes- 
men,  and  the  people  with  geraniums,  and  the  umbrella-mender, 
and  the  man  who  trilled  the  little  bell  of  the  Dutch  clock  as  he 
went  along.  It  was  soon  gone  again  to  return  no  move  that 
day  ,  and  the  bands  of  music  and  the  straggling  Punch's  shows 
going  after  it,  left  it  a  prey  10  the  most  dismal  of  organs,  and 
white  mice ,  with  now  and  then  a  porcupine,  to  vary  the  enter- 
tainments :  until  the  butlers  whose  families  were  dining  out, 
began  to  stand  at  the  house-doors  in  the  twilight,  and  the 
lamp-lighter  made  his  nightly  failure  in  attempting  to  brighten 
vp  the  street  with  gas. 

It  was  as  blank  a  house  inside  as  outside.  When  the  fu- 
neral was  over,  Mr.  Dombey  ordered  the  furniture  to  be  covered 
up — perhaps  to  preserve  it  for  the  son  with  whom  his  plans 
were  all  associated — and  the  rooms  to  be  ungarnished,  saving 
such  as  he  retained  for  himself  on  the  ground  floor.  Accord- 
ingly, mysterious  shapes  were  made  of  tables  and  chairs, 
heaped  together  in  the  raiddl  of  rooms,  and  covered  over  with 
great  winding-sheets.  Bell-handles,  window-blinds,  and  look- 
ing-glasses, being  papered  up  in  journals,  daily  and   weekly, 


28  DOMBEV  AND  ^ON. 

obtruded  fragmentary  accounts  of  deaths  and  dreadful  mut 
ders.  Every  chandelier  or  lustre,  muffled  in  holland,  looked 
like  a  monstrous  tear  depending  from  the  ceiling's  eye,  odors, 
as  from  vaults  and  damp  places,  came  out  of  the  chimneys. 
The  dead  and  buried  lady  was  awful  in  a  .picture-frame  of 
ghastly  bandages.  Every  gust  of  wind  that  rose,  brought  ed 
dying  round  the  corner  from  the  neighboring  mews,  some  frag-f 
ments  of  the  straw  that  had  been  strewn  before  the  house  when' 
she  was  ill,  mildewed  remains  of  which  were  still  cleaving  to 
the  neighborhood  3  and  these,  being  always  drawn  by  some  in- 
visible attraction  to  the  threshold  of  the  dirty  house  to  let  im- 
mediately opposite,  addressed  a  dismal  eloquence  to  Mr.  Dom- 
bey's  windows. 

The  apartments  which  Mr.  Dombey  reserved  for  his  own 
inhabiting,  were  attainable  from  the  hall,  and  consisted  of  a 
sitting-room  ;  a  library,  which  was  in  fact  a  dressing-room,  so 
t\at  the  smell  of  hot-pressed  paper,  vellum,  morocco,  and 
Russia  leather,  contended  in  it  with  the  smell  of  divers  pairs 
of  boots;  and  a  kind  of  conservatory  or  little  glass  breaktast- 
room  beyond,  commanding  a  prospect  of  the  trees  before  men- 
tioned, and,  generally  speaking,  of  a  few  prowling  cats.  These 
three  rooms  opened  upon  one  another,  in  ihe  morning,  when 
Mr.  Dombey  was  at  his  breakfast  in  one  or  other  of  the  two 
first-mentioned  of  them,  as  well  as  in  the  afternoon  when  he 
came  home  to  dinner,  a  bell  was  rung  for  Richards  to  repair  to 
this  glass  chamber,  and  there  walk  to  and  fro  with  her  young 
charge.  Fiom  the  glimpses  she  caught  of  Mr.  Dombey  at  these 
times,  sitting  in  the  dark  distance,  looking  out  towards  the 
infant  from  among  the  dark  heavy  furniture — the  house  had 
been  inhabited  for  years  by  his  father,  and  in  many  of  its  ap- 
pointments was  old-fashioned  and  grim — she  began  to  entertain 
ideas  of  him  in  his  solitary  state,  as  if  he  were  a  lone  prisoner 
in  a  cell,  or  a  strange  apparition  that  was  not  to  be  accosted 
or  understood. 

Little  Paul  Dombey's  foster-mother  had  led  this  life  herself, 
and  had  carried  lj>de  Paul  through  it  for  some  weeks  ;  and 
had  returned  up  stairs  one  day  from  a  melancholy  saunter 
through  the  dreary  rooms  of  state  (she  never  went  out  without 
Mrs.  Chick,  who  called  on  fine  mornings,  usually  accompanied 
by  Miss  Tox,  to  take  her  and  Baby  for  an  airing — or  in  other 
words,  to  march  them  gravely  up  and  down  the  pavement ;  like 
a  walking  funeral)  ;  when,  as  she  was  silting  in  her  own  room, 
the  door  was  slowly  and  quietly  opened,  and  a  dark-eyed  little 
girl  looked  in. 


MR   DOM  BEY  AS  A  MAN  AND  A  FATHER.  29 

"  It's  Miss  Florence  come  home  from  her  aunt's,  no  doubt, ** 
thought  Richards,  who  had  never  seen  the  child  before. 
•*  Hope  I  see  you  well,  Miss." 

"  Is  that  my  brother  ?  "  asked  the  child,  pointing  to  the 
Baby. 

"  Yes,  my  pretty,"  answered  Richards.  *'  Come  and  kiss 
him." 

But  the  child,  instead  of  advancing,  looked  her  earnestly  in 
the  face,  and  said  : 

"  What  have  you  done  with  my  Mama  ?  " 

"  Lord  bless  the  little  creeter  !  "  cried  Richards,  "  what  a 
sad  question  !     I  done  ?     Nothing,  Miss." 

"  What  have  they  done  with  my  Mama  ?  "  inquired  the  child. 

"  I  never  saw  such  a  melting  thing  in  all  my  life  !  "  said 
Richards,  who  naturally  substituted  for  this  child  one  of  her 
own,  inquiring  for  her  herself  in  like  circumstances.  "  Come 
nearer  here,  my  dear  Miss  !     Don't  be  afraid  of  me." 

"  I  am  not  afraid  of  you,"  said  the  child,  drawing  nearer. 
"  But  I  want  to  know  what  they  have  done  with  my  Mama." 

"My  darling,"  said  Richards,  "  you  wear  that  pretty  black 
frock  in  remembrance  of  your  Mama." 

"  I  can  remember  my  Mama,"  returned  the  child,  with  tears 
springing  to  her  eyes,  "  in  any  frock." 

"  But  people  put  on  black,  to  remember  people  when  they're 
gone." 

"  Where  gone  ?  "  asked  the  child. 

"  Come  and  sit  down  by  me,"  said  Richards,  *'  and  I'll  tell 
you  a  story." 

With  a  quick  perception  that  it  was  intended  to  relate  to 
what  she  had  asked,  little  Florence  laid  aside  the  bonnet  she 
had  held  in  her  hand  until  now,  and  sat  down  on  a  stool  at  the 
Nurse's  feet,  looking  up  into  her  face. 

"  Once  upon  a  time,"  said  Richards,  "there  was  a  lady — a 
very  good  lady,  and  her  little  daughter  dearly  loved  her." 

"  A  very  good  lady  and  her  little  daughter  dearly  loved 
her,"  repeated  the  child. 

"  Who,  when  God  thought  it  right  that  it  should  be  so,  vras 
taken  ill  and  died." 

The  child  shuddered. 

"  Died,  never  to  be  seen  again  by  any  one  on  earth,  and 
was  buried  in  the  ground  where  the  trees  grow." 

"  The  cold  ground  ?  "  said  the  child,  shuddering  again. 

"  No  !  The  warm  ground,"  returned  Polly,  seizing  her  ad- 
vantage, "where  the  ugly  little  seeds  turn  intQ  beautiful  flowers, 


J« 


DOMBE  y  AND  SOX. 


and  into  grass,  and  corn,  and  I  don't  know  what  all  besides. 
Where  good  people  turn  into  bright  angels,  and  fly  away  t4 
Heaven  !  " 

The  child,  wiio  had  drooped  her  head,  raised  it  again,  and 
sat  looking  at  her  intently. 

"  So  ;  let  me  see,"  said  Polly,  not  a  little  flurried  between 
this  earnest  scrutiny,  her  desire  to  comfort  the  child,  her  sudden 
success,  and  her  very  slight  confidence  in  her  own  powers. 
"So,  when  this  lady  died,  wherever  they  took  her,  or  wherever 
they  put  her,  she  went  to  God  !  and  she  prayed  to  Him,  this 
lady  did,"  said  Polly,  affecting  herself  beyond  measure  ;  being 
heartily  in  earnest,  "  to  teach  her  little  daughter  to  be  sure  of 
that  in  her  heart :  and  to  know  that  she  was  happy  there  and 
loved  her  still :  and  to  hope  and  try — Oh,  al'  her  life — to  meet 
her  there  one  day,  never,  never,  never  to  part  any  more." 

"It  was  my  Mama!"  exclaimed  the  child,  springing  up^ 
and  clasping  her  round  the  neck. 

"And  the  child's  heart,"  said  Polly,  drawing  her  to  her 
breast  •  "  the  little  daughter's  heart  was  so  full  of  the  truth  of 
this,  that  even  when  she  heard  it  from  a  strange  nurse  that 
couldn't  tell  it  right,  but  was  a  poor  mother  herself  and  that 
was  all,  she  found  a  comfort  in  it — didn't  feel  so  lonely — sobbed 
and  cried  upon  her  bosom — took  kindly  to  the  baby  lying  in 
her  lap — and — there,  there,  there  !  "  said  Polly,  smoothing  the 
child's  curls  and  dropping  tears  upon  them.  "There,  poor 
dear !" 

"  Oh  well,  Miss  Floy !  And  won't  your  Pa  be  angry 
neither  !  "  cried  a  quick  voice  at  the  door,  proceeding  from  a 
short,  brown,  womanly  girl  of  fourteen,  with  a  little  snub  nose, 
and  black  eyes  like  jet  beads.  "When  it  was  'tickerlerly  given 
out  that  you  wasn't  to  go  and  worrit  the  wet  nurse." 

"  She  don't  worry  me,"  was  the  surprised  rejoinder  of  Polly. 
"  I  am  very  fond  of  children." 

"  Oh  !  but  begging  your  pardon,  Mrs.  Richards,  that  don't 
matter,  you  know,"  returned  the  black-eyed  girl,  who  was  so 
desperately  sharp  and  biting  that  she  seemed  to  make  one's 
eyes  water.  "  I  may  be  \ery  fond  of  perrywinkles,  Mrs.  Rich- 
ards, but  it  don't  follow  that  I'm  to  have  'em  for  tea." 

"Well,  it  don't  matter,"  said  Polly. 

"  Oh,  thank'e,  Mrs.  Richards,  don't  it !  "  returned  the 
sharp  girl.  "  Remembering,  however,  if  you'll  be  so  good,  that 
Miss  Floy's  under  my  charge,  and  Master  Paul's  under  your'n." 

"But  still  we  needn't  quarrel,"  said  Polly. 

"Oh  no,  Mrs.  Kichards,"  rejoined  Spitfire.     "  Not  at  all,  I 


MR.  DOMBEY  AS  A  MAN  AND  A  FATHER,  ^\ 

don't  wish  it,  we  needn't  stand  upon  that  footing,  Miss  Floy 
being  a  permanency,  Master  Paul  a  temporary."  Spitfire 
made  use  of  none  but  comma  pauses  ;  shooting  out  what- 
ever she  had  to  say  in  one  sentence,  and  in  one  breath,  if  pos- 
sible. 

"  Miss  Florence  has  just  come  home,  hasn't  she  ? "  asked 
Polly. 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Richards,  just  come,  and  here,  Miss  Floy, 
before  you've  been  in  the  house  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  you  go  a 
smearing  your  wet  face  agamst  the  expensive  mourning  that 
Mrs.  Richards  is  a  wearing  for  your  Ma  !  "  With  this  remon- 
strance, young  Spitfire,  whose  real  name  was  Susan  Nipper, 
detached  the  child  from  her  new  friend  by  a  wrench — as  if  she 
were  a  tooth.  But  she  seemed  to  do  it,  more  in  the  excessively 
sharp  exercise  of  her  official  functions,  than  with  any  deliberate 
unkindness. 

"  She'll  be  quite  happy,  now  she  has  come  home  again,""' 
said  Polly,  nodding  to  her  with  an  encouraging  smile  upon  her 
wholesome  face,  "  and  will  be  so  pleased  to  see  her  dear  Papa« 
to-night." 

"  Lork,  Mrs.  Richards  !  "  cried  Miss  Nipper,  taking  up  her 
>vords  with  a  jerk.  "  Don't.  See  her  dear  Papa  indeed  I  J 
should  like  to  see  her  do  it !  " 

"  Won't  she  then  ?  "  asked  Polly. 

*'  Lork,  Mrs.  Richards,  no,  her  Pa's  a  deal  too  wrapped  uj* 
in  somebody  else,  and  before  there  was  a  somebody  else  to  be 
wrapped  up  in  she  never  was  a  favorite,  girls  are  thrown  away 
in  this  house,  Mrs.  Richards,  /assure  you." 

The  child  looked  quickly  from  one  nurse  to  the  other,  as  it 
she  understood  and  felt  what  was  said. 

"  You  surprise  me  !  "  cried  Polly.  "  Hasn't  Mr.  Dombey 
seen  her  since — " 

"  No,"  interrupted  Susan  Nipper.  "  Not  once  since,  and 
he  hadn't  hardly  set  his  eyes  upon  her  before  that  for  months 
and  months,  and  I  don't  think  he'd  have  known  her  for  his  own 
child  if  he  had  met  her  in  the  streets,  or  would  know  her  for; 
his  own  child  it  he  was  to  meet  her  in  the  streets  to-morrow, 
Mrs.  Richards,  as  to  w^,"  said  Spitfire,  with  a  giggle,  "  I  doubt 
if  he's  aweer  of  my  existence." 

"  Pretty  dear  !  "  said  Richards ;  meaning,  not  Miss  Nipper, 
6ut  the  little  Florence. 

"  Oh  !  there's  a  Tartar  within  a  hundred  miles  of  where 
we're  now  in  conversation,  I  can  tell  you,  Mrs.  Richards,  pres- 
Rjjl:  company  always  excepted  too,"  said  Susan  Nipper  j  "  wist 


32 


DOMBEY  Ai\D  SON. 


you  good-morning,  Mrs.  Richards,  now  Miss  Floy,  you  com6 
along  witli  me,  and  don't  go  hanging  back  like  a  naughty  wicked 
child  that  judgments  is  no  example  to,  don't." 

In  spite  of  being  thus  adjured,  and  in  spite  also  of  some 
hauling  on  the  part  of  Susan  Nipper,  tending  towards  the  dis- 
location of  her  right  shoulder,  little  Florence  broke  away,  and 
kissed  her  new  friend,  affectionately. 

"  Good-by  !  "  said  the  child.  "  God  bless  you  !  I  shall 
come  to  see  you  again  soon,  and  you'll  come  to  see  me  ?  Susan 
will  let  us.     Won't  you,  Susan  .-•  " 

Spitfire  seemed  to  be  in  the  main  a  good-natured  little  body, 
although  a  disciple  of  that  school  of  trainers  of  the  young  idea 
which  holds  that  childhood,  like  money,  must  be  shaken  and 
rattled  and  jostled  about  a  good  deal  to  keep  it  bright.  For, 
being  thus  appealed  to  with  some  endearing  gestures  and 
caresses,  she  folded  her  small  arms  and  shook  her  head,  and 
conveyed  a  relenting  expression  mto  her  very-wide-open  black 
eyes. 

"  It  ain't  right  of  you  to  ask  it.  Miss  Floy,  for  you  know  I 
can't  refuse  you,  but  Mrs.  Richards  and  me  will  see  what  can 
be  done,  if  Mrs.  Richards  likes,  I  may  wish,  you  see,  to  take  a 
voyage  to  Chaney,  Mrs.  Richards,  but  I  mayn't  know  how  to 
leave  the  London  Docks." 

Richards  assented  to  the  proposition. 

"This  house  ain't  so  exactly  ringing  with  merry-making," 
said  Miss  Nipper,  "  that  one  need  be  lonelier  than  one  must 
be.  Your  Toxes  and  your  Chickses  may  draw  out  my  two 
front  double  teeth,  Mrs.  Richards,  but  that's  no  reason  why 
I  need  offer  'em  the  whole  set." 

This  proposition  was  also  assented  to  by  Richards,  as  an 
obvious  one. 

"  So  I'm  agreeable,  I'm  sure,"  said  Susan  Nipper,  "  to  live 
friendly,  Mrs.  Richards,  while  Master  Paul  continues  a  per- 
manency, if  the  means  can  be  planned  out  without  going  open- 
ly against  orders,  but  goodness  gracious  Mr.,  Miss  Floy,  you 
haven't  got  your  things  off  yet,  you  naughty  child,  you  haven't, 
come  along  !  " 

With  these  words,  Susan  Nipper,  in  a  transport  of  coercion, 
made  a  charge  at  her  young  ward,  and  swept  her  out  of  the 
room. 

The  child,  in  her  grief  and  neglect,  was  so  gentle,  so  quiet, 
and  uncomplaining  ;  was  possessed  of  so  much  affection  that 
no  one  seemed  to  care  to  have,  and  so  much  sorrowful  Intel- 
ligencQ  that  no  one  seemed  to  mind  or  think  about  th^  wound 


MR.  DOMBEY  AS  A  MAN  AND  A  FATHER.  ^l 

ingof;  that  Polly's  heart  was  sore  when  she  was  left  alone 
again.  In  the  simple  passage  that  had  taken  place  between 
herself  and  the  motherless  little  girl,  her  own  motherly  heart 
had  been  touched  no  less  than  the  child's  ;  and  she  felt,  as  the 
child  did,  that  there  was  something  of  confidence  and  interest 
between  them  from  that  moment. 

Notwithstanding  Mr.  Toodle's  great  reliance  on  Polly,  she 
was  perhaps  in  point  of  artificial  accomplishments  very  little 
his  superior.  But  she  was  a  good,  plain  sample  of  a  nature 
that  is  ever,  in  the  mass,  better,  truer,  higher,  nobler,  quicker 
to  feel,  and  much  more  constant  to  retain,  all  tenderness  and 
pity,  self-denial  and  devotion,  than  the  nature  of  men.  And, 
perhaps,  unlearned  as  she  was,  she  could  have  brought  a  dawn- 
ing knowledge  home  to  Mr.  Dombey  at  that  early  day,  which 
would  not  then  have  struck  him  in  the  end  like  lightning. 

But  this  is  from  the  purpose.  Polly  only  thought,  at  that 
time,  of  improving  on  her  successful  propitiation  of  Miss  Nip- 
per, and  devising  some  means  of  having  little  Florence  beside 
her,  lawfully,  and  without  rebellion.  An  opening  happened  to 
present  itself  that  very  night. 

She  had  been  rung  down  into  the  glass  room  as  usual,  and 
had  walked  about  and  about  it  a  long  time,  with  the  baby  in 
her  arms,  when,  to  her  great  surprise  and  dismay,  Mr.  Dombey 
came  out,  suddenly,  and  stopped  before  her. 

"  Good-evening,  Richards." 

Just  the  same  austere,  stiff  gentleman,  as  he  had  appeared 
to  her  on  that  first  day.  Such  a  hard-looking  gentleman,  that 
she  involuntarily  dropped  her  eyes  and  her  curtsey  at  the  same 
time. 

"  How  is  Master  Paul,  Richards  ? " 

"  Quite  thriving,  sir,  and  well." 

"  He  looks  so,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  glancing  with  great 
interest  at  the  tiny  face  she  uncovered  for  his  observation,  and 
yet  affecting  to  be  half  careless  of  it.  "  They  give  you  every- 
thing you  want,  I  hope  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  thank  you,  sir." 

She  suddenly  appended  such  an  obvious  hesitation  to  this 
reply,  however,  that  Mr.  Dombey,  who  had  turned  away, 
stopped,  and  turned  round  again,  inquiringly. 

"  I  believe  nothing  is  so  good  for  making  children  lively 
and  cheerful,  sir,  as  seeing  other  children  playing  about  'em," 
observed  Polly,  taking  courage. 

"  I  think  I  mentioned  to  you,  Richards,  when  you  came 
here,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  with  a  frown,  "  that  I  wished  you  to 


j^  DOMBEY  AND  son: 

see  as  little  of  your  family  as  possible.     You  can  continue  youi 
walk  if  you  please." 

With  that,  he  disappeared  into  his  inner  room  :  and  Poll) 
had  the  satisfaction  of  feeling  that  he  had  thoroughly  misunder- 
stood her  object,  and  that  she  had  fallen  into  disgrace  without 
the  least  advancement  of  bar  purpose. 

Next  night,  she  found  him  walking  about  the  conservatory 
when  she  came  down.  As  she  stopped  at  the  door,  checked 
by  this  unusual  sight,  and  uncertain  whether  to  advance  or 
retreat,  he  called  her  :n. 

''  If  you  really  think  that  sort  of  society  is  good  for  the 
child,"  he  said  sharply  as  if  there  had  been  no  interval  since 
she  proposed  it,  "  where's  Miss  Florence  .? "' 

"  Nothing  could  be  better  than  Miss  Florence,  Sir,"  said 
Polly  eagerly,  but  I  understood  from  her  little  maid  that  they 
were  not  to — " 

Mr.  Dombey  rang  the  bell,  and  walked  till  it  was  answered. 
"  Tell  them  always  to  let  Miss  Florence  be  with  Richards 
when  she  chooses,  and  go  out  with  her,  and  so  forth.  Tell 
them  to  let  the  children  be  together,  when  Richards  wishes  it." 
The  iron  was  now  hot,  and  Richards  striking  on  it 
toldly — it  was  a  good  cause  and  she  was  bold  in  it,  though 
instinctively  afraid  of  Mr.  Dombey  —  requested  that  Miss 
Florence  might  be  sent  down  then  and  there,  to  make  friends 
with  her  little  brother. 

She  feigned  to  be  dandling  the  child  as  the  servant  retired 
on  this  errand,  but  she  thought  that  she  saw  Mr.  Dombey's 
color  changed  ;  that  the  expression  of  his  face  quite  altered  ; 
that  he  turned  hurriedly,  as  if  to  gainsay  what  he  had  said,  or 
she  had  said,  or  both,  and  was  only  deterred  by  very  shame. 

And  she  was  right.  The  last  time  he  had  seen  his 
slighted  child,  there  had  been  that  in  the  sad  embrace  be- 
tween her  and  her  dying  mother,  which  was  at  once  a  reve- 
lation and  a  reproach  to  him.  Let  him  be  absorbed  as  he 
would  in  the  Son  on  whom  he  built  such  high  hopes,  he 
could  not  forget  that  closing  scene.  He  could  not  forget 
that  he  had  had  no  part  in  it.  That,  at  the  bottom  of  its 
clear  depths  of  tenderness  and  truth,  lay  those  two  figures 
clasped  in  each  other's  arms,  while  he  stood  on  the  bank 
above  them,  looking  down  a  mere  spectator — not  a  sharer 
with  them — quite  shut  out. 

Unable  to  exclude  these  things  from  his  remembrance,  or 
to  keep  his  mind  free  from  such  imperfect  shapes  of  the 
meaning  with  which  they  were  fraught,  as  were  able  to  make 


MR.  DOMBEV  AS  A  MAN  AND  A  FATHER.  35 

themselves  visible  to  him  through  the  mist  of  his  pride,  his 
previous  feelings  of  indifference  towards  little  Florence 
changed  into  an  uneasiness  of  an  extraordinary  kind.  He 
almost  felt  as  if  she  watched  and  distrusted  him.  As  if  she 
held  the  clue  to  something  secret  in  his  breast,  of  the  nature 
of  which  he  was  hardly  informed  himself.  As  if  she  had  an 
innate  knowledge  of  one  jarring  and  discordant  string  within 
him,  and  her  very  breath  could  sound  it. 

His  feeling  about  the  child  had  been  negative  from  her 
birth.  He  had  never  conceived  an  aversion  to  her :  it  had 
not  been  worth  his  while  or  in  his  humor.  She  had  never 
been  a  positively  disagreeable  object  to  him.  But  now  he 
was  ill  at  ease  about  her.  She  troubled  his  peace.  He 
would  have  preferred  to  put  her  idea  aside  altogether,  if  he 
had  known  how.  Perhaps — who  shall  decide  on  such  myste- 
ries ! — he  was  afraid  that  he  might  come  to  hate  her. 

When  little  Florence  timidly  presented  herself,  Mr.  Dom- 
bey  stopped  in  his  pacing  up  and  down  and  looked  towards 
lier.  Had  he  looked  with  greater  interest  and  with  a  father's 
eye,  he  might  have  read  in  her  keen  glance  the  impulses  and 
fears  that  made  her  waver ;  the  passionate  desire  to  run 
clinging  to  him,  crying  as  she  hid  her  face  in  his  embrace, 
"  Oh  father,  try  to  love  me  !  there's  no  one  else  !  "  the  dread 
of  a  repulse  ;  the  fear  of  being  too  bold,  and  of  offending  him  ; 
the  pitiable  need  in  which  she  stood  of  some  assurance  and 
encouragement ;  and  how  her  overcharged  young  heart  was 
wandering  to  find  some  natural  resting-place,  for  its  sorrow 
and  affection. 

But  he  saw  nothing  of  this.  He  saw  her  pause  irreso- 
lutely at  the  door  and  look  towards  him  ;  and  he  saw  no 
more. 

"  Come  in,"  he  said,  "  come  in  :  what  is  the  child  afraid  of  ? " 

She  came  in  ;  and  after  glancing  round  her  for  a  moment 
with  an  uncertain  air,  stood  pressing  her  small  hands  hard 
together,  close  within  the  door. 

"  Come  here,  Florence,"  said  her  father,  coldly.  "  Do 
you  know  who  I  am  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Papa." 

"  Have  you  nothing  to  say  to  me  ?  " 

The  tears  that  stood  in  her  eyes  as  she  raised  them 
quickly  to  his  face,  were  frozen  by  the  expression  it  wore. 
She  looked  down  again,  and  put  out  her  trembling  hand. 

Mr.  Dombey  took  it  loosely  in  his  own,  and  stood  looking 
down  upon  her  for  a  moment,  as  if  he  knew  as  little  as  the 
child,  what  to  say  or  do. 


3^  D6MBEY  AND  <>0N'. 

"  There !  Be  a  good  girl,"  he  said,  patting  her  on  the 
head,  and  regarding  her  as  it  were  by  stealth  with  a  dis- 
turbed and  doubtful  look.     "  Go  to  Richards  !     Go  !  " 

His  little  daughter  hesitated  for  another  instant  as  though 
she  would  have  clung  about  him  still,  or  had  some  lingering 
hope  that  he  might  raise  her  in  his  arms  and  kiss  her.  She 
looked  up  in  his  face  once  more.  He  thought  how  like  her 
expression  was  then,  to  what  it  had  been  when  she  looked 
round  at  the  Doctor — that  night — and  instinctively  dropped 
her  hand  and  turned  away. 

It  was  not  difficult  to  perceive  that  Florence  was  at  a 
great  disadvantage  in  her  father's  presence.  It  was  not  only 
a  constraint  upon  the  child's  mind,  but  even  upon  the  natural 
grace  and  freedom  of  her  actions.  Still  Polly  persevered  with 
all  the  better  heart  for  seeing  this  ;  and,  judging  of  Mr, 
Dombey  by  herself,  had  great  confidence  in  the  mute  appeal 
of  poor  little  Florence's  mourning  dress.  "  It's  hard  enough 
indeed,"  thought  Polly,  "  if  he  takes  only  to  one  little  mother- 
less child,  when  he  has  another,  and  that  a  girl,  before  his 
eyes." 

So,  Polly  kept  her  before  his  eyes,  as  long  as  she  could, 
and  managed  so  well  with  little  Paul,  as  to  make  it  very  plain 
that  he  was  all  the  livelier  for  his  sister's  company.  When  it 
was  time  to  withdraw  up  stairs  again,  she  would  have  sent 
Florence  into  the  inner  room  to  say  good-night  to  her  father, 
but  the  child  was  timid  and  drew  back  :  and  when  she  urged 
her  again,  said,  spreading  her  hands  before  her  eyes,  as  if  to 
shut  out  her  own  unworthiness,  "  Oh  no,  no  !  He  don't  want 
me.     He  don't  want  me  !  " 

The  little  altercation  between  them  had  attracted  the  notice 
of  Mr.  Dombey,  who  inquired  from  the  table  where  he  was  sit- 
ting at  his  wine  what  the  matter  was. 

"  Miss  Florence  was  afraid  of  interrupting,  Sir,  if  she 
came  in  to  say  good-night,"  said  Richards. 

"  It  doesn't  matter,"  returned  Mr.  Dombey.  "  You  can 
let  her  come  and  go  without  regarding  me." 

The  child  shrunk  as  she  listened — and  was  gone,  before 
her  humble  friend  looked  round  again. 

However,  Polly  triumphed  not  a  little  in  the  success  of 
her  well-intentioned  scheme,  and  in  the  address  with  which 
she  had  brought  it  to  bear  :  whereof  she  made  a  full  dis- 
closure to  Spitfire  when  she  was  once  more  safely  intrenched  up 
stairs.  Miss  Nipper  received  that  proof  of  her  confidence, 
as  well  as  the  prospect  of  their  free  association  for  the  future 


MORE  FIRST  APPEARANCES.  37 

rather  coldly,  and  was  anything  but  enthusiastic  in  her  demon 
strations  of  joy, 

"  I  thought  you  would  have  been  pleased,"  said  Polly. 

"  Oh  yes,  Mrs,  Richards,  I  am  very  well  pleased,  thank 
you,"  returned  Susan,  who  had  suddenly  become  so  very  up- 
right that  she  seemed  to  have  put  an  additional  bone  in  her 
stays. 

"You  don't  show  it,"  said  Polly. 

"  Oh  1  Being  only  a  permanency  I  couldn't  be  expected 
to  show  it  like  a  temporary,"  said  Susan  Nipper.  "  Tempo- 
raries carries  it  all  before  'em  here,  I  find,  but  though  there's 
a  excellent  party-wall  between  this  house  and  the  next,  I 
mayn't  exactly  like  to  go  to  it,  Mrs.  Richards,  not  with- 
standing I " 


CHAPTER  IV. 

IN    WHICH   SOME   MORE  FIRST  APPEARANCES   ARE  MADE  ON   THE 
STAGE    OF    THESE   ADVENTURES. 

Though  the  offices  of  Dombey  and  Son  were  within  the 
liberties  of  the  City  of  London,  and  within  hearing  of  Bow 
Bells,  when  their  clashing  voices  were  not  drowned  by  the  up- 
roar in  the  streets,  yet  were  there  hints  of  adventurous  and  ro- 
mantic story  to  be  observed  in  some  of  the  adjacent  objects. 
Gog  and  Magog  held  their  state  within  ten  minutes'  walk  ;  the 
Royal  Exchange  was  close  at  hand  ;  the  Bank  of  England,  with 
its  vaults  of  gold  and  silver  "  down  among  the  dead  men"  un- 
derground, was  their  magnificent  neighbor.  Just  round  the 
corner  stood  the  rich  East  Indi-a  House,  teeming  with  sugges- 
tions of  precious  stuffs  and  stones,  tigers,  elephants,  howdahs, 
hookahs,  umbrellas,  palm  trees,  palanquins,  and  gorgeous 
princes  of  a  brown  complexion  sitting  on  carpets,  with  their 
slippers  very  much  turned  up  ac  the  toes.  Anywhere  in  the  im- 
mediate vicinity  there  might  be  seen  cictures  of  ships  soeeding 
away  full  sail  to  all  parts  of  the  world;  outfitting  warehouses 
ready  to  pack  off  anybody  anywhere,  fully  equipped  in  half  an 
hour;  and  little  timber  midshipmen  in  obsolete  naval  uniforms, 
eternally  employed  outside  the  shopdoors  of  nautical  instru- 
ment-makers in  taking  observations  of  the  hackney  coaches. 

Sole  master  and  proprietor  of  one  of  these  effigies-^or  that 


3?  POMBEY  AND  SON. 

which  might  be  called,  familiarly,  the  woodenest — of  that  which 
thrust  itself  out  above  the  pavement,  right  leg  foremost,  with  a 
suavity  the  least  endurable,  and  had  the  shoe  buckles  and 
flapped  waistcoat  the  least  reconcilable  to  human  reason,  and 
bore  at  its  right  eye  the  most  offensively  disproportionate  piece 
of  machinery — sole  master  and  proprietor  of  that  midshipman, 
and  proud  of  him  too,  an  elderly  gentleman  in  a  Welsh  wig  had 
paid  house-rent,  taxes,  and  dues,  for  more  years  than  many  a 
full-grown  midshipmen  of  flesh  and  blood  has  numbered  in  his 
life  ;  and  midshipman  who  have  a  pretty  green  old  age,  have 
not  been  wanting  in  the  English  navy. 

The  stock  in  trade  of  this  old  gentleman  comprised  chro- 
nometers, barometers,  telescopes,  compasses,  charts,  maps,  sex- 
tants, quadrants,  and  specimens  of  every  kind  of  instrument 
used  in  the  working  of  a  ship's  course,  or  the  keeping  of  a 
ship's  reckoning,  or  the  prosecuting  of  a  ship's  discoveries. 
Objects  in  brass  and  glass  were  in  his  drawers  and  on  his 
shelves,  which  none  but  the  initiated  could  have  found  the  top 
of,  or  guessed  the  use  of,  or  having  once  examined,  could  have 
ever  got  back  again  into  their  mahogany  nests  without  assist- 
ance. Everything  was  jammed  into  the  tightest  cases,  fitted 
into  the  narrowest  corners,  fenced  up  behind  the  most  imperti- 
nent cushions,  and  screwed  into  the  acutest  angles,  to  prevent 
its  philosophical  composure  from  being  disturbed  by  the  rolling 
of  the  sea.  Such  extraordinary  precautions  were  taken  in  every 
instance  to  save  room,  and  keep  the  thing  compact ;  and  so 
much  practical  navigation  was  fitted,  and  cushioned,  and 
spiewed  into  every  box  (whether  the  box  was  a  mere  slab,  as 
spme  were,  or  something  between  a  cocked  hat  and  a  star-fish, 
as  ethers  were,  and  those  quite  mild  and  modest  boxes  as  com- 
pared with  others)  ;  that  the  shop  itself,  partaking  of  the  gen- 
eral infection,  seemed  almost  to  become  a  snug,  sea-going, 
ship-shape  concern,  wanting  only  good  sea-room,  in  the  event 
of  an  unexpected  launch,  to  work  its  way  securely  to  any  desert 
island  in  the  world. 

Many  minor  incidents  in  the  household  life  of  the  Ships'  In- 
strument-maker who  was  proud  of  his  little  midshipman,  assisted 
i.nd  bore  out  this  fancy.  His  acquaintance  lying  chiefly  among 
ship-chandlers  and  so  forth,  he  had  always  plenty  of  the  verita- 
ble ships'  biscuit  on  his  table.  It  was  familiar  with  dried  meats 
and  tongues,  possessing  an  extraordinary  flavor  of  rope  yarn. 
Pickles  were  produced  upon  it,  in  great  wholesale  jars,  with 
"'lealer  in  all  kinds  of  Ships'  Provisions"  on  the  label ;  spirits 
'  ^re  set  forth  in  case  bottlc^j  with  no  throats,     Old  prints  0/ 


MORE  FIRST  APPEARAA'CliS.  ^g 

ihips  with  alphabetical  references  to  their  various  mysteries, 
hung  in  frames  upon  the  walls;  the  Tartar  Frigate  under 
weigh,  was  on  the  plates  ;  outlandish  shells,  seaweeds,  and 
mosses,  decorated  the  chimney-piece,  the  little  wainscoted 
back  parlor  was  lighted  by  a  sky-light,  like  a  cabin. 

Here  he  lived  too,  in  skipper-like  state,  all  alone  with  his 
nephew  Walter  :  a  boy  of  fourteen  who  looked  quite  enough 
like  a  midshipman,  to  carry  out  the  prevailmg  idea.  But  there 
it  ended,  for  Solomon  Gills  himself  (more  generally  called  old 
Sol)  was  far  from  having  a  maritime  appearance.  To  say  noth- 
ing of  his  Welsh  wig,  which  was  as  plain  and  stubborn  a  Welsh 
wig  as  ever  was  worn,  and  in  which  he  looked  like  anything  but 
a  Rover,  he  was  a  slow,  quiet-spoken,  thoughtful  old  fellow, 
with  eyes  as  red  as  if  they  had  been  small  suns  looking  at  you 
through  a  fog ,  and  a  newly-awakened  manner,  such  as  he  might 
liave  acquired  by  having  stared  for  three  or  four  days  succes- 
sively through  every  optical  instrument  in  his  sliop,  and  sud- 
denly came  back  to  the  world  agam,  to  find  it  green.  The 
only  change  ever  known  in  his  outward  man,  was  from  a  com- 
plete suit  of  coffee-color  cut  very  square,  and  ornamented  with 
glaring  buttons,  to  the  same  suit  of  coffee-color  minus  the  inex- 
pressibles, which  were  then  of  a  pale  nankeen.  He  wore  a 
very  precise  shirt-frill,  and  carried  a  pair  of  first-rate  spectacles 
on  his  forehead,  and  a  tremendous  chronometer  in  his  fob, 
rather  than  doubt  which  precious  possession,  he  would  have 
believed  in  a  conspiracy  against  it  on  the  part  of  all  the  clocks 
and  watches  in  the  City,  and  even  of  the  very  Sun  itself.  Such 
as  he  was,  such  he  had  been  in  the  shop  and  parlor  behind  the 
little  midshipman,  for  years  upon  years  ;  going  regularly  aloft 
to  bed  every  night  in  a  howling  garret  remote  from  the  lodgera, 
where,  when  gentlemen  of  England  who  lived  below  at  ease 
had  little  or  no  idea  of  the  state  of  the  weather,  it  often  blew 
great  guns. 

It  is  halt  past  five  o'clock,  and  an  autumn  afternoon,  when 
the  reader  and  Solomon  Gills  become  acquainted.  Solomon 
Gills  is  in  the  act  of  seeing  what  time  it  is  by  the  unimpeach- 
able chronometer.  The  usual  daily  clearance  has  been  making 
in  the  City  for  an  hour  or  more ;  and  the  human  tide  is  still 
rolling  westward.  '  The  streets  have  thinned,'  as  Mr.  Gills 
says,  '  very  much.'  It  threatens  to  be  wet  to-night.  All  the 
weather-glasses  in  the  shop  are  in  low  spirits,  and  the  rain 
already  shines  upon  the  cocked  hat  of  the  wooden  midship- 
man. 

"  Where's  Walter,  I  wonder  1  "  said  Solomon  Gills,  after  he 


4d  DOM  BE  '  ■  Ah'D  SOW 

had  carefully  put  up  the  chronometer  again.  "  Here's  dinnet 
been  ready,  half  an  hour,  and  no  \\'alter !  " 

Turning  round  upon  his  stool  behind  the  counter,  Mr.  Gills 
looked  out  among  the  instruments  in  the  window,  to  see  if  his 
nephew  might  be  crossing  the  road.  No.  He  was  not  among 
the  bobbing  umbrellas,  and  he  certainly  was  not  the  newspaper 
boy  in  the  oilskin  cap  who  was  slowly  working  his  way  along 
the  piece  of  brass  outside,  writing  his  name  over  ]\Ir.  Gill's 
name  with  his  forefinger. 

"  If  I  didn't  know  he  was  too  fond  of  me  to  make  a  run  of 
it,  and  go  and  enter  himself  aboard  ship  against  my  wishes,  I 
should  begin  to  be  fidgetty,"  said  Mr.  Gills,  tapping  two  or 
three  weather  glasses  with  his  knuckles.  "  I  really  should. 
All  in  the  Downs,  eh  !    Lots  of  moisture  !    Well !  it's  wanted," 

"I  believe,"  said  Mr,  Gills,  blowing  the  dust  off  the  glass 
top  of  a  compass  case,  "that  you  don't  point  more  direct  and 
due  to  the  back  parlor  than  the  boy's  inclination  does  after  all. 
And  the  parlor  couldn't  bear  straighter  either.  Due  north. 
Not  the  twentieth  part  of  a  point  either  way." 

"  Halloa,  Uncle  Sol  !  " 

"  Halloa,  my  boy  !  "  cried  the  Instrument  Maker,  turning 
briskly  around.     "  What !  you  are  here,  are  you  !  " 

A  cheerful  looking,  merry  boy,  fresh  with  running  home  i« 
the  rain  ;  fair-faced,  bright-eyed,  and  curly-haired, 

"  Well,  Uncle,  how  have  you  got  on  without  me  all  day  !  Is 
dinner  ready?     I'm  so  hungry," 

"  As  to  getting  on,"  said  Solomon  good-naturedly.  "  it  would 
be  odd  if  I  couldn't  get  on  without  a  young  dog  like  you  a  great 
deal  better  than  with  you.  As  to  dinner  being  ready,  it's  been 
ready  this  half  hour  and  waiting  for  you.  As  to  being  hungry, 
/am  !  " 

"  Come  along  then,  Uncle  !  "  cried  the  boy.  "  Hurrah  for 
the  admiral !  " 

"  Confound  the  admiral  !  "  returned  Solomon  Gills.  "  You 
mean  the  Lord  Mayor." 

"  No  I  don't  !  "  cried  the  boy.  "  Hurrah  for  the  admiral. 
Hurrah  for  the  admiral !     For — ward  !  " 

At  this  word  of  command,  the  Welsh  wig  and  its  wearer 
were  borne  without  resistance  into  the  back  parlor,  as  at  the 
head  of  a  boarding  party  of  fi\e  hundred  men  ;  and  Uncle  Sol 
and  his  nephew  were  speedily  engaged  on  a  fried  sole  with  a 
prospect  of  steak  to  follow. 

"The  Lord  Mayor,  Wally,"  said  Solomon,  "for  ever!  Nc 
more  admirals.     The  Lord  Mavor's^w/r  admiral." 


MORE  FIRST  APPEARANCES.  41 

*'  Oh,  is  he  though  !  "  said  the  boy,  shaking  his  head.  "Why, 
the  Sword  Bearer's  better  than  him.  He  draws  his  sword 
sometimes." 

"  And  a  pretty  figure  he  cuts  with  it  for  his  pains,"  returned 
the  Uncle.  "  Listen  to  me,  Wally,  listen  to  me.  Look  on  the 
mantel-shelf." 

"  Why,  who  has  cocked  my  silver  mug  up  there,  on  a  nail !  " 
exclaimed  the  boy. 

"  I  have,"  said  his  Uncle.  "  No  more  mugs  now.  We  must 
begin  to  drink  out  of  glasses  to-day,  Walter.  We  are  men  of 
business.  We  belong  to  the  City.  We  started  in  life  this 
morning." 

"Well,  Uncle,"  said  the  boy,  "I'll  drink  out  of  anything 
you  like,  so  long  as  I  can  drink  to  you.  Here's  to  you,  Uncle 
Sol,  and  Plurrah  for  the — " 

"  Lord  Mayor,"  interrupted  the  old  man. 

"  For  the  Lord  Mayor,  Sheriffs,  Common  Council,  and  Liv 
ery,"  said  the  boy.     "  Long  life  to  'em  !  " 

The  Uncle  nodded  his  head  with  great  satisfaction.  "And 
now,"  he  said,  "  let's  hear  something  about  the  firm." 

"  Oh !  there's  not  much  to  be  told  about  the  Firm,  Uncle," 
said  the  boy,  plying  his  knife  and  fork.  "  It's  a  precious  dark 
set  of  offices,  and  in  the  room  where  I  sit,  there's  a  high  fender, 
and  an  iron  safe,  and  some  cards  about  ships  that  are  going  to 
sail,  and  an  almanac,  and  some  desks  and  stools,  and  an  ink- 
bottle,  and  some  books,  and  some  boxes,  and  a  lot  of  cobwebs, 
and  in  one  of  'em,  just  over  my  head,  a  shrivelled-up  blue  bottle 
that  looks  as  if  it  had  hung  there  ever  so  long." 

"  Nothing  else  ?  "  said  the  Uncle. 

"  No,  nothing  else,  except  an  old  bird-cage  (I  wonder  how 
that  ever  came  there  !)  and  a  coal-scuttle." 

"  No  bankers'  books,  or  check  books,  or  bills,  or  such 
tokens  of  wealth  rolling  in  from  day  to  day  ?  "  said  old  Sol, 
looking  wistfully  at  his  nephew  out  of  the  fog  that  always 
seemed  to  hang  about  him,  and  laying  an  unctuous  emphasis 
upon  the  words. 

"  Oh  yes,  plenty  of  that  I  suppose,"  returned  his  nephew 
carelessly;  "but  that  sort  of  thing's  in  Mr.  Carker's  room,  or 
Mr.  Morfin's,  or  Mr.  Dombey's." 

"  Has  Mr.  Dombey  been  there  to-day  ? "  inquired  the 
Uncle. 

"  Oh  yes  !     In  and  out  all  day." 

"  He  didn't  take  any  notice  of  you,  I  suppose?'' 

*'  Yes  he  did.    He  walked  up  to  my  seat,— I  wish  h?  wisn't 


42 


DOME EY  AND  SON: 


SO  solemn  and  stiff,  Uncle,  and  said  '  Oh  !  you  are  tlie  son  of 
Mr.  Gills  the  Ships'  Instrument-maker.'  '  Nephew,  Sir,'  I  said. 
'  I  said  nephew,  boy,'  said  he.  But  I  could  take  my  oath  he 
said  Son,  Uncle." 

"  You're  mistaken  I  dare  say.     It's  no  matter." 

"  No,  it's  no  matter,  but  he  needn't  have  been  so  sharp,  1 
thought.  There  was  no  harm  in  it  though  he  did  say  Son. 
Then  he  told  me  that  you  had  spoken  to  him  about  me,  and 
that  he  had  found  me  employment  in  the  House  accordingly, 
and  that  I  was  expected  to  be  attentive  and  punctual,  and  then 
he  went  away.     I  thought  he  didn't  seem  to  like  me  much." 

"  You  mean,  I  suppose,"  observed  the  Instrument-maker, 
"that  you  didn't  seem  to  like  him  much." 

"Well,  Uncle,"  returned  the  boy,  laughing.  "Perhaps  so; 
I  never  thought  of  that." 

Solomon  looked  a  little  graver  as  he  finished  his  dinner, 
and  glanced  from  time  to  time  at  the  boy's  bright  face.  When 
dinner  was  done,  and  the  cloth  was  cleared  away  (the  enter- 
tainment had  been  brought  from  a  neighboring  eating-house), 
lie  lighted  a  candle  and  went  down  below  into  a  little  cellar, 
while  his  nephew,  standing  on  the  mouldy  staircase,  dutifully 
held  the  light.  After  a  moment's  groping  here  and  there,  he 
presently  returned  with  a  very  ancient-looking  bottle,  covered 
with  dust  and  dirt. 

"  Why,  Uncle  Sol  !  "  said  the  boy,  "  what  are  you  about ! 
that's  the  wonderful  Madeira  ! — there's  only  one  more  bottle  ! " 

Uncle  Sol  nodded  his  head,  implying  that  he  knew  very  well 
what  he  was  about ;  and  having  drawn  the  cork  in  solemn 
silence,  filled  two  glasses  and  set  the  bottle  and  a  third  clean 
glass  on  the  table. 

"  You  shall  drink  the  other  bottle,  Wally,"  he  said,  "when 
you  come  to  good  fortune ;  when  you  are  a  thriving,  respected, 
happy  man  ;  v.hen  tlie  start  in  life  you  have  made  to-day  shall 
have  brought  you,  as  1  pray  Heaven  it  may! — to  a  smooth  j^art 
of  the  course  you  have  to  run,  my  child.     My  love  to  you !  " 

Some  of  the  fog  that  hung  about  Old  Sol  seemed  to  have 
got  into  his  throat  ;  for  he  spoke  huskily.  His  hand  shook  too, 
as  he  clinked  his  glass  against  his  nephew's.  But  having  once 
got  the  wine  to  his  lips,  he  tossed  it  off  like  a  man,  and  smacked 
them  afterwards. 

"  Dear  Uncle,"  said  the  boy,  affecting  to  make  light  of  it, 
while  the  tears  stood  in  his  eyes,  "for  the  honor  you  have  done 
me,  et  cetera,  et  cetera.  I  shall  now  beg  to  propose  Mr.  Solo 
naon  Gills,  with  three  times  three  and  one  cheer  more.    Hurrah ! 


MORE  FIRST  APPEARANCES.  43 

and  you'll  return  thanks,  Uncle,  when  we  drink  the  last  bottle 
too'ether ;  won't  you  ? "  ,  ,,.  ,  ■> 

"They  clinked  their  glasses  again;  and  Wal  er,  who  w^as 
hoarding  his  wine,  took  a  sip  of  it,  and  held  the  glass  up  to  his 
eve  with  as  critical  an  air  as  he  could  possibly  assume. 
^  His  Uncle  sat  looking  at  him  for  some  tmie  m  silence. 
When  their  eyes  at  last  met,  he  began  at  once  to  Pursue  the 
theme  that  had  occupied  his  thoughts,  aloud,  as  if  he  had  been 
speaking  all  the  while.  ,    ,  .    ,      •         •  ^i„ 

"  You  see  Walter,"  he  said,  "  in  truth  this  business  is  merely 
a  habit  with  me.  I  am  so  accustomed  to  the  habit  that  I  could 
hardly  live  if  I  relinquished  it:  but  there's  nothing  doing,  noth- 
in<r  doino-  When  that  uniform  was  worn,"  pointing  towards 
the  little  midshipman,  "then,  indeed,  fortunes  were  to  be  made, 
and  were  made.  But  competition,  competition— new  invention 
new  invention— alteration,  alteration— the  world  s  gone  past 
me.  I  hardly  know  where  I  am  myself ;  much  less  where  my 
customers  are," 

"Never  mind 'em.  Uncle!"  ,         ,.  ,      1     .. 

"Since  you  came  home  from  weekly  boarding-school  at. 

Peckham,  for  instance— and  that's  ten  days,"  said  Solomon, 

"  I  don't  remember  more  than  one  person  that  has  come  into 

^'^"Two,  Uncle,  don't  you  recollect?  .There  was  the  man 
who  came  to  ask  for  change  for  a  sovereign—" 

"  That's  the  one,"  said  Solomon. 

"Why,  Uncle!  don't  you  call  the  woman  anybody,  who 
came  to  aLk  the  way  to  Mile-End  Turnpike  ? " 

"Oh!  it's  true,"  said  Solomon,  "1  forgot  her.     Iwo  per- 


sons 


"  To  be  sure,  they  didn't  buy  anything,"  cried  the  boy. 
"  No.     They  didn't  buy  anything,"  said  Solomon,  quietly, 
"  Nor  want  anything,"  cried  the  boy.  ,         ,       ,,        j 

"No.  If  they  had,  they'd  gone  to  another  shop,  said 
Solomon,  in  the  same  tone.  ,    „      .    ,    ,      1  't 

"  But  there  were  two  of  'em.  Uncle,"  cried  the  boy,  as  it 
that  were  a  great  triumph.     "  You  said  only  one." 

*■  Well  Wally,"  resumed  the  old  man,  after  a  short  pause: 
"  not  bein'^  like  the  Savages  who  came  on  Robinson  Crusoe's 
Island,  we  can't  live  on  a  man  who  asks  for  change  for  a  sov-- 
ereicrn  and  a  woman  who  inquires  the  way  to  Mile-Lnd  lurn- 
piket  As  I  said  just  now,  the  world  has  gone  past  me.  I 
don't  blame  it ;  but  I  no  longer  understand  it.  Tradesmen 
are  not  the  same  as  thev  used  to  be,  apprentices  are  not  the 


44  DOMBEY  AXD  SOX. 

same,  business  is  not  the  same,  business  commodities  are  not 
the  same.  Seven-eighths  of  my  stock  is  old-fashioned.  I  am 
an  old-fashioned  man  in  an  old-fashioned  shop,  in  a  street  that 
is  not  the  same  as  I  remember  it.  I  have  fallen  behind  the 
time,  and  am  too  old  to  catch  it  again.  Even  the  noise  it 
makes  a  long  way  ahead,  confuses  me." 

Walter  was  going  to  speak,  but  his  Uncle  held  up  his  hand. 

"  Therefore,  Wally — therefore  it  is  that  I  am  anxious  you 
should  be  early  in  the  busy  world,  and  on  the  world's  track.  I 
am  only  the  ghost  of  this  business — its  substance  vanished 
long  ago  ;  and  when  I  die  its  ghost  will  be  laid.  As  it  is 
clearly  no  inheritance  for  you  then,  I  have  thought  it  best  to 
use  for  your  advantage,  almost  the  only  fragment  of  the  old 
connection  that  stands  by  me,  through  long  habit.  Some  peo- 
ple suppose  me  to  be  wealthy.  I  wish  for  your  sake  they  were 
right.  But  whatever  I  leave  behind  me,  or  whatever  I  can  give 
you,  you  in  such  a  house  as  Dombey's  are  in  the  road  to  use 
well  and  make  the  most  of.  Be  diligent,  try  to  like  it,  my  dear 
boy,  work  for  a  steady  independence,  and  be  happy !  " 

"  I'll  do  everything  I  can,  Uncle,  to  deserve  your  affection. 
Indeed  I  will,"  said  the  boy,  earnestly. 

"  I  know  it,"  said  Solomon.  "  I  am  sure  of  it,"  and  he 
applied  himself  to  a  second  glass  of  the  old  Madeira,  with  in- 
creased relish.  "As  to  the  Sea,"  he  pursued,  "that's  well 
enough  in  fiction,  Wally,  but  it  won't  do  in  fact :  it  won't  do  at 
all.  It's  natural  enough  that  you  should  think  about  it,  asso- 
ciating it  with  all  these  familiar  things  ;  but  it  won't  do,  it 
won't  do." 

Solomon  Gills  rubbed  his  hands  with  an  air  of  stealthy  en- 
joyment, as  he  talked  of  the  sea,  though ;  and  looked  on  the 
seafaring  objects  about  him  with  inexpressible  complacencv. 

"  Think  of  this  wine  for  instance,"  said  old  Sol,  "  which 
has  been  to  the  East  Indies  and  back,  I'm  not  able  to  say  how 
often,  and  has  been  once  round  the  world.  Think  of  the  pitch- 
dark  nights,  the  roaring  winds,  and  rolling  seas  :  " 

"  The  thunder,  lightning,  rain,  hail,  storm  of  all  kinds," 
said  the  boy. 

"  To  be  sure,"  said  Solomon, — "  That  this  wine  has  passed 
through.  Think  what  a  straining  and  creaking  of  timbers  and 
masts  :  what  a  whistling  and  howling  of  the  gale  through  ropes 
and  rigging  !  " 

"  What  a  clambering  aloft  of  men,  vying  with  each  other 
who  shall  lie  out  first  upon  the  yards  to  furl  the  icy  sails,  while 
the  ship  rolls  and  pitches,  like  mad  I "  cried  his  nephew. 


MOkE  FIRSJ'  APl'EAkANCRS  45 

"  Eaxctly  so,"  said  Solomon :  "  has  gone  on  over  the  old 
cask  that  Jield  this  wine.  Why,  when  the  Charming  Sally  went 
down  in  the — " 

"  In  the  Baltic  Sea,  in  the  dead  of  the  night ;  five-and 
twenty  minutes  past  twelve  when  the  captain's  watch  stopped 
in  his  pocket  ;  he  lying  dead  against  the  main-mast — on  the 
lourteenth  of  February,  seventeen  forty-nine  !  "  cried  Walter,^ 
with  great  animation. 

"  Ay,  to  be  sure  ! "  cried  old  Sol,  "  quite  right  !  Then, 
there  were  five  hundred  casks  of  such  wine  aboard  ;  and  all 
hands  (except  the  first  mate,  first  lieutenant,  two  seamen,  and 
a  lady,  in  a  leaky  boat)  going  to  work  to  stave  the  casks,  got 
drunk  and  died  drunk,  singing,  '  Rule  Britannia,'  when  she 
settled  and  went  down,  and  ending  with  one  awful  scream  in 
chorus." 

"  But  when  the  George  the  Second  drove  ashore,  Uncle,  on 
the  coast  of  Cornwall,  in  a  dismal  gale,  two  hours  before  day- 
break, on  the  fourth  of  March,  seventy-one,  she  had  near  two 
hundred  horses  aboard  ;  and  the  horses  breaking  loose  down 
below,  early  in  the  gale,  and  tearing  to  and  fro,  and  trampling 
each  other  to  death,  made  such  noises,  and  set  up  such  human 
cries,  that  the  crew  believing  the  ship  to  be  full  of  devils, 
some  of  the  best  men,  losing  heart  and  head,  went  overboard 
in  despair,  and  only  two  were  left  alive,  at  last,  to  tell  the 
tale." 

"  And  when,"  said  old  Sol,  "  when  the  Polyphemus — " 

"  Private  West  India  Trader,  burden  three  hundred  and 
fifty  tons,  Captain  John  Brown  of  Ueptford.  Owners,  Wiggs 
and  Co.,"  cried  Walter. 

"  The  same,"  said  Sol ;  "  when  she  took  fire,  four  days' 
sail  with  a  fair  wind  out  of  Jamaica  Harbor,  in  the  night — " 

"  There  were  two  brothers  on  board,"  interposed  his  nephew, 
speaking  very  fast  and  loud,  "  and  there  not  being  room  for 
both  of  them  in  the  only  boat  that  wasn't  swamped,  neither  of( 
them  would  consent  to  go,  until  the  elder  took  the  younger  by* 
the  waist  and  flung  him  in.  And  then  the  younger  rising  in 
the  boat,  cried  out,  '  Dear  Edward,  think  of  your  promised 
wife  at  home.  I'm  only  a  boy.  No  one  waits  at  home  for 
me.  Leap  down  into  my  place  ! '  and  flung  himself  in  the 
sea ! " 

The  kindling  eye  and  heightened  color  of  the  boy,  who  had 
risen  from  his  seat  in  the  earnestness  of  what  he  said  and  felt, 
seemed  to  remind  old  Sol  of  something  he  had  forgotten,  or 
^at  his  encircling  loist  had  hitherto  shut  out.     Instead  of  pro* 


4^  DOMBE  V  A  \  D  HON. 

ceeding  with  any  more  anecdotes,  as  he  had  evidently  intended 
but  a  moment  before,  he  gave  a  short  dry  cough,  and  said, 
"  Well !  suppose  we  change  the  subject." 

The  truth  was,  that  the  simple-minded  uncle  in  his  secret 
attraction  towards  the  marvellous  and  adventurous — of  which 
he  was,  in  some  sort,  a  distant  relation,  by  his  trade — had 
greatly  encouraged  the  same  attraction  in  the  nephew  ;  and 
that  everything  that  had  ever  been  put  before  the  boy  to  deter 
him  from  a  life  of  adventure,  had  had  the  usual  unaccountable 
effect  of  sharpening  his  taste  for  it.  This  is  invariable.  It 
would  seem  as  if  there  never  was  a  book  written,  or  a  story 
told  expressly  with  the  object  of  keeping  boys  on  shore,  which 
did  not  lure  and  charm  them  to  the  ocean,  as  a  matter  of 
course. 

But  an  addition  to  the  little  party  now  made  its  appearance, 
in  the  shape  of  a  gentleman  in  a  wide  suit  of  blue,  with  a  hook 
instead  of  a  hand  attached  to  his  right  wrist;  very  bushy  black 
eyebrows ;  and  a  thick  stick  in  his  left  hand  covered  all  over 
(like  his  nose)  with  knobs.  He  wore  a  loose  black  silk 
handkerchief  round  his  neck,  and  such  a  very  large  coarse 
shirt  collar,  that  it  looked  like  a  small  sail.  He  was  evidently 
the  person  for  wliom  the  spare  wine-glass  was  intended,  and 
evidently  knew  it ;  for  having  taken  off  his  rough  outer  coat, 
and  hung  up,  on  a  particular  peg  behind  the  door,  such  a  hard 
glazed  hat  as  a  sympathetic  person's  head  might  ache  at  the 
sight  of,  and  which  left  a  red  rim  round  his  own  forehead  as 
if  he  had  been  wearing  a  light  basin,  he  brought  a  chair  to 
where  the  clean  glass  was,  and  sat  himself  down  behind  it.  He 
was  usually  addressed  as  Captain,  this  visitor;  and  had  been  a 
pilot,  or  a  skipper,  or  a  privateers-man,  or  all  three  perhaps; 
and  was  a  very  salt-looking  man  indeed. 

His  face,  remarkable  for  a  brown  solidity,  brightened  as  he 
shook  hands  with  uncle  and  nephew  ;  but  he  seemed  to  be  of 
a  laconic  disposition,  and  merely  said : 

"  How  goes  it  ?  " 

"All  well,"  said  Mr.  Gills,  pushing  the  bottle  towards  him. 

He  took  it  up,  and  having  surveyed  and  smelt  it,  said  with 
extraordinary  expression  : 

"  77/6',"  returned  the  Instrument-maker. 

Upon  that  he  whistled  as  he  filled  his  glass,  and  seemed  to 
think  they  were  making  holiday  indeed. 

"Wal'r !  "  he  said,  arranging  his  hair  (which  was  thin)  with 
his  hook,  and  then  pointing  it  at  the  instrument-maker,  "  Loo| 


MOUE  FIRST  APPEARAXCES.  4^ 

at  him.  Love .'  Honor !  And  Obey !  Overhaul  your  cat- 
echism till  you  find  that  passage,  and  when  found  turn  the  leaf 
down.     Success,  my  boy  !  " 

He  was  so  perfectly  satisfied,  both  with  his  quotation  and 
his  reference  to  it,  that  he  could  not  help  repeating  the  words 
again  in  a  low  voice,  and  saying  he  had  forgotten  'em  these 
forty  year. 

"  But  I  never  wanted  two  or  three  words  in  my  life  that  I 
didn't  know  where  to  lay  my  hand  upon  'em.  Gills,"  he  ob- 
served.    "  It  comes  of  not  wasting  language  as  some  do." 

The  reflection  perhaps  reminded  him  that  he  had  better, 
like  young  Norval's  father,  "  increase  his  store."  At  any  rate 
he  became  silent,  and  remained  so,  until  old  Sol  went  out  into 
tne  shop  to  light  it  up,  when  he  turned  to  Walter,  and  said, 
without  any  introductory  remark  : 

"  I  suppose  he  could  make  a  clock  if  he  tried  ?  " 

"  I  shouldn't  wonder.  Captain  Cuttle,"  returned  the  boy. 

"  And  it  would  go  !  "  said  Captain  Cuttle,  making  a  species 
of  serpent  in  the  air  with  his  hook.  "  Lord,  how  that  clock 
would  go  !  " 

For  a  moment  or  two  he  seemed  quite  lost  in  contemplating 
the  pace  of  this  ideal  timepiece,  and  sat  looking  at  the  boy  as 
if  his  face  were  the  dial. 

"  But  he's  chockfull  of  science,"  he  observed,  waving  his 
hook  towards  the  stock-in-trade.  "  Look  ye  here  !  Here's  a 
collection  of  'em.  Earth,  air,  or  water.  It's  all  one.  Only 
say  where  you'll  have  it.  Up  in  a  balloon  ?  There  you  are. 
Down  in  a  bell  ?  There  you  are.  D'ye  want  to  put  the  North 
Star  in  a  pair  of  scales  and  weigh  it  ?     He'll  do  it  for  you." 

It  may  be  gathered  from  these  remarks  that  Captain  Cut- 
tle's reverence  for  the  stock  of  instruments  was  profound,  and 
that  his  philosophy  knew  little  or  no  distinction  between  trad- 
ing in  it  and  inventing  it. 

"  Ah  ! "  he  said,  with  a  sigh,  "  it's  a  fine  thing  to  under- 
stand 'em.  And  yet  it's  a  fine  thing  not  to  understand  'em.  I 
hardly  know  which  is  best.  It's  so  comfortable  to  sit  here  and 
feel  that  you  might  be  weighed,  measured,  magnified,  electrified, 
polarized,  played  the  very  devil  with  :  and  never  know  how." 

Nothing  short  of  the  wonderful  Madeira,  combined  with 
the  occasion  (which  rendered  it  desirable  to  improve  and  ex- 
pand Walter's  mind),  could  have  ever  loosened  his  tongue  to 
the  extent  of  giving  utterance  to  this  prodigious  oration.  He 
seemed  quite  amazed  himself  at  the  manner  in  which  it  opened 
up  to  viiew  the  sources  of  the  taciturn  delight,  he  had  had  ifl 


14ft  DOMBE'f  AjVD  SON. 

eating  Sunday  dinners  in  that  parlor  for  ten  years.  Becoming 
a  sadder  and  a  wiser  man,  he  mused  and  held  his  peace. 

"  Come  !  "  cried  the  subject  of  his  admiration,  returning. 
"  Before  you  have  your  glass  of  grog,  Ned,  we  must  finish  the 
bottle," 

"  Stand  by  !  "  said  Ned,  filling  his  glass.  "  Give  the  boy 
some  more." 

"  No  more,  thank'e,  Uncle  !  " 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Sol,  "a  little  more.  We'll  finish  the  bot« 
tie,  to  the  House,  Ned — Walter's  house.  Why  it  may  be  his 
house  one  of  these  days,  in  part.  Who  knows  ?  Sir  Richard 
Whittington  married  his  master's  daughter." 

"  '  Turn  again  Whittington,  Lord  Mayor  of  London,  and 
when  you  are  old  you  will  never  depart  from  it,'  "  interposed 
the  Captain.     "  Wal'r  !     Overhaul  the  book,  my  lad." 

"  And  although  Mr.  Dombey  hasn't  a  daughter,"  Sol  began. 

"Yes,  yes,  he  has,  Uncle,"  said  the  boy,  reddening  and 
laughing. 

"  Has  he  ?  "  cried  the  old  man.  "  Indeed  I  think  he  has 
too." 

"  Oh  !  I  know  he  has,"  said  the  boy.  "  Some  of  'em  were 
talking  about  it  in  the  ofiice  to-day.  And  they  do  say.  Uncle 
and  Captain  Cuttle,"  lowering  his  voice,  "that  he's  taken  a 
dislike  to  her,  and  that  she's  left,  unnoticed,  among  the  ser- 
vants, and  that  his  mind's  so  set  all  the  while  upon  having  his 
son  in  the  House,  that  although  he's  only  a  baby  now,  he  is 
going  to  have  balances  struck  oftener  than  formerly,  and  the 
books  kept  closer  than  they  used  to  be,  and  has  even  been 
seen  (when  he  thought  he  wasn't),  walking  in  the  Docks,  look- 
ing at  his  ships  and  property  and  all  that,  as  if  he  was  exulting 
like,  over  what  he  and  his  son  will  possess  together.  That's 
what  they  say.     Of  course  /don't  know." 

"  He  knows  all  about  her  already,  you  see,"  said  the  Instru- 
ment-maker. 

•'  Nonsense,  Uncle,"  cried  the  boy,  still  reddening  and* 
laughing,  boy-like.  "  How  can  I  help  hearing  what  they  tell 
me  ? " 

"  The  Son's  a  little  in  our  way  at  present,  I'm  afraid,  Ned," 
said  the  old  man,  humoring  the  joke. 

"Very  much,"  said  the  Captain. 

"Nevertheless,  we'll  diink  him,"  pursued  Sol.  "  So, here's 
to  Dombey  and  Son." 

"Oh,  very  well,  Uncle,"  said  the  boy,  merrily.  "Since you 
have  introduced  the  mention  of  her,  and  have  connected  me 


PAUL'S  PROGRESS  AND  CHRISTENING.  45 

with  her,  and  have  said  that  I  know  all  about  her,  I  shall  make 
bold  to  amend  the  toast.  So  here's  to  Dombey — and  Son— 
and  Daughter ' " 


CHAPTER  V. 

Paul's  progress  and  christening. 

Little  Paul  suffering  no  contamination,  from  the  blood 
of  the  Toodles,  grew  stouter  and  stronger  every  day.  Every 
day,  too,  he  was  more  and  more  ardently  cherished  by  Miss 
Tox,  whose  devotion  was  so  far  appreciated  by  Mr.  Dombey 
that  he  began  to  regard  her  as  a  woman  of  great  natural  good 
sense,  whose  feelings  did  her  credit  and  deserved  encourage- 
ment. He  was  so  lavish  of  this  condescension,  that  he  not  only 
bowed  to  her,  in  a  particular  manner,  on  several  occasions,  but 
even  entrusted  sucli  stately  recognitions  of  her  to  his  sister  as 
"  pray  tell  your  friend,  Louisa,  that  she  is  very  good,"  or 
"mention  to  Miss  Tox,  Louisa,  that  I  am  obliged  to  her;" 
specialities  which  made  a  deep  impression  on  the  lady  thus 
distinguished. 

Miss  Tox  was  often  in  the  habit  of  assuring  Mrs.  Chick, 
that  "  nothing  could  exceed  her  interest  in  all  connected  with 
the  development  of  that  sweet  child  ; "  and  an  observer  of  Miss 
Tox's  proceedings  might  have  inferred  so  much  without  declar- 
atory confirmation.  She  would  preside  over  the  innocent  repasts 
of  the  young  heir,  with  ineffable  satisfaction,  almost  with  an  air 
of  joint  proprietorship  with  Richards  in  the  entertainment.  At 
the  little  ceremonies  of  the  bath  and  toilette,  she  assisted  with 
enthusiasm.  The  administration  of  infantine  doses  of  physic 
awakened  all  the  active  sympathy  of  her  character  ;  and  being 
on  one  occasion  secreted  in  a  cupboard  (whither  she  had  fled  in 
modesty),  when  Mr.  Dombey  was  introduced  into  the  nursery 
by  his  sister,  to  behold  his  son,  in  the  course  of  preparation  for 
bed,  taking  a  short  walk  uphill  over  Richards's  gown,  in  a  short 
and  airy  linen  jacket.  Miss  Tox  was  so  transported  beyond  the 
ignorant  present  as  to  be  unable  to  refrain  from  crying  out,  "  Is 
he  not  beautiful,  Mr.  Dombey !  Is  he  not  a  Cupid,  Sir  !  "  and 
then  almost  sinking  behind  the  closet  door  with  confusion  and 
blushes. 

"  Louisa,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  one  day,  to  his  sister,  "  I  really 


1^0  DOMBEY  A\D  soy. 

think  I  must  present  30ur  friend  with  some  little  token,  on  the 
ijccasion  of  Paul's  christening.  She  lias  exerted  herself  so 
warmly  in  the  child's  behalf  from  the  first,  and  seems  to  under 
stand  her  position  so  thoroughly  (a  very  rare  merit  in  this  world, 
I  am  sorry  to  say),  that  it  would  really  be  agreeable  to  me  to 
notice  her." 

Let  it  be  no  detraction  from  the  merits  of  Miss  Tox,  to  hint 
that  in  Mr.  Dombey's  eyes,  as  in  some  others  that  occasionally 
see  the  light,  they  only  achieved  that  mighty  piece  of  knowl- 
edge, the  understanding  of  their  own  position,  who  showed  a 
fitting  reverence  for  his.  It  was  not  so  much  their  merit  that 
they  knew  themselves,  as  that  they  knew  him,  and  bowed  low 
before  him. 

"My  dear  Paul,"  returned  his  sister,  "you  do  Miss  Tox  but 
justice,  as  a  man  of  your  penetration  was  sure,  I  knew,  to  do. 
I  believe  if  there  are  three  words  in  the  English  language  for 
which  she  has  a  respect  amounting  almost  to  veneration,  those 
words  are,  Dombey  and  Son." 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,"!  believe  it.  It  does  Miss 
Tox  credit." 

"And  as  to  anything  in  shape  of  a  token,  my  dear  Paul," 
pursued  his  sister,  "  all  I  can  say  is  that  anjthing  you  give  Miss 
Tox  will  be  hoarded  and  prized,  I  am  sure,  like  a  relic.  But 
there  is  a  way,  my  dear  Paul,  of  showing  your  sense  of  Miss 
Tox's  friendliness  in  a  still  more  flattering  and  acceptable 
manner,  if  you  should  be  so  inclined." 

"  How  is  that  .-*  "  asked  Mr.  Dombey. 

"Godfathers,  of  course,"  continued  Mrs.  Chick,  "are  im- 
portant in  point  of  connection  and  influence." 

"  I  don't  know  why  they  should  be,  to  my  son,"  said  Mr. 
Dombey,  coldly. 

"  Very  true,  my  dear  Paul,"  retorted  Mrs.  Chick,  with  an 
extraordinar)'  show  of  animation,  to  cover  the  suddenness  of 
her  conversion  ;  "  and  spoken  like  yourself.  I  might  have  ex- 
pected nothing  else  from  you.  I  might  have  known  that  such 
would  ha\e  been  your  opinion.  Perhaps  ; "  here  Mrs.  Chick 
flattered  again,  as  not  quite  comfortably  feeling  her  way  ;  "  per- 
haps that  is  a  reason  why  you  might  have  the  less  objection  to 
allowing  Miss  Tox  to  be  godmother  to  the  dear  thing,  if  it 
were  only  as  deputy  and  proxy  for  some  one  else.  That  it 
would  be  received  as  a  great  honor  and  distinction,  Paul,  J 
need  not  say." 

"  Louisa,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  after  a  short  pause,  "  it  is  not 
to  be  supposed — -" 


PAUL'S  PROGRESS  AND  CHRISTENING.  51 

"  Certainly  not,"  cried  Mrs.  Chick,  hastening  to  anticipate 
a  refusal,  "1  never  thought  it  was." 

Mr.  Doinbey  looked  at  her  impatiently. 

"  Don't  flurry  me,  my  dear  Paul,"  said  his  sister  ;  "  for  that 
destroys  me.  I  am  far  from  strong.  I  have  not  been  quite 
myself,  since  poor  dear  Fanny  departed." 

Mr.  Dombey  glanced  at  the  pocket-handkerchief  which 
his  sister  applied  to  her  eyes,  and  resumed  : 

"It  is  not  to  be  supposed,  I  say — " 

"  And  I  say,"  murmured  Mrs.  Chick,  "  that  I  never  thought 
it  was." 

"  Good  Heaven,  Louisa  !  "  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  No,  my  dear  Paul,"  she  remonstrated  with  tearful  dignity, 
"  I  must  really  be  allowed  to  speak.  I  am  not  so  clever,  or  so 
reasoning,  or  so  eloquent,  or  so  anything,  as  you  are.  I  know 
that  very  well.  So  much  the  worse  for  me.  But  if  they  were 
the  last  words  I  had  to  utter — and  last  words  should  be  very 
solemn  to  you  and  me,  Paul,  after  poor  dear  Fanny — I  should 
still  say  I  never  thought  it  was.  And  what  is  more,"  added 
Mrs.  Chick  with  increased  dignity,  as  if  she  had  withheld  her 
crushing  argument  until  now,  "I  never  didxVxwV  it  was." 

Mr.  Dombey  walked  to  the  window  and  back  again. 

"  It  is  not  to  be  supposed,  Louisa,"  he  said  (Mrs.  Chick  had 
nailed  her  colors  to  the  mast,  and  repeated  "  I  know  it  isn't," 
but  he  took  no  notice  of  it),  "  but  that  there  are  many  persons 
who,  supposing  that  I  recognized  any  claim  at  all  in  such  a  case, 
have  a  claim  upon  me  superior  to  Miss  Tox's.  But  I  do  not. 
I  recognize  no  such  thing.  Paul  and  myself  will  be  able, 
when  the  time  comes,  to  hold  our  own — the  house,  in  other 
words,  will  be  able  to  hold  its  own,  and  maintain  its  own,  and 
hand  down  its  own  of  itself,  and  without  any  such  common- 
place aids.  The  kind  of  foreign  help  which  people  usually  seek 
for  their  children,  I  can  afford  to  despise  ;  being  above  it,  I 
hope.  So  that  Paul's  infancy  and  childhood  pass  away  well, 
and  I  see  him  becoming  qualified  without  waste  of  time  for  the 
career  on  which  he  is  destined  to  enter,  I  am  satisfied.  He 
will  make  what  powerful  friends  he  pleases  in  after-life,  when 
he  is  actively  maintaining — and  extending,  if  that  is  possible — 
the  dignity  and  credit  of  the  Firm,  Until  then,  I  am  enough 
for  him,  perhaps,  and  all  in  all.  I  have  no  wish  that  people 
should  step  in  between  us.  I  would  much  rather  show  my 
sense  of  the  obliging  conduct  of  a  deserving  person  like  youi 
friend.  Therefore  let  it  be  so  ;  and  your  husband  and  myself 
will  do  well  enough  for  the  other  sponsors,  I  dare  say." 


ja  DOM  BEY  AXD  SO!^. 

In  the  course  of  these  remarks,  delivered  with  great  majesh 
and  grandeur,  Mr.  Dombey  had  truly  revealed  the  secret  feel- 
ings of  his  breast.  An  indescribable  distrust  of  anybody  step 
ping  in  between  himself  and  his  son  ;  a  haughty  dread  of  hav- 
ing any  rival  or  partner  in  the  boy's  respect  and  deference;  a 
sharp  misgiving,  recently  acquired,  that  he  was  not  itifallible  in 
his  power  of  bending  and  binding  human  wills;  as  sharp  a 
jealousy  of  any  second  clieck  or  cross  ;  these  were,  at  that  time, 
the  master  keys  of  his  soul.  In  all  his  life,  he  had  never  made  a 
friend.  His  cold  and  distant  nature  had  neither  sought  one, 
nor  found  one.  And  now  when  that  nature  concentrated  its 
Avhole  force  so  strongly  on  a  partial  scheme  o*^  parental  interest 
and  ambition,  it  seemed  as  if  its  icy  current,  instead  of  being 
released  by  this  influence,  and  running  cleai  and  free,  had 
thawed  for  but  an  instant  to  admit  its  burden,  and  then  frozen 
with  it  into  one  unyielding  block. 

Elevated  thus  to  the  godmothership  of  little  Paul,  in  virtue 
of  her  insignificance.  Miss  Tox  was  from  that  hour  chosen  and 
appointed  to  office;  and  Mr.  Dombey  further  sign'iied  his 
pleasure  that  the  ceremony,  already  long  delayed,  should  take 
place  without  further  postponement.  His  sister,  who  had  been 
far  from  anticipating  so  signal  a  success,  withdrew  as  soon  as 
she  could,  to  conmiunicate  it  to  her  best  of  friends  ;  and  Mr. 
Dombey  was  left  alone  in  his  library. 

There  was  anything  but  solitude  in  the  nursery  ;  for  there, 
Mrs.  Chick  and  Miss  Tox  were  enjoying  a  social  evening,  so 
much  to  the  disgust  of  Miss  Susan  Nipper,  that  that  young 
lady  embraced  every  opportunity  of  making  wry  faces  behind 
the  door.  Her  feelings  were  so  much  excited  on  the  occasion 
that  she  found  it  indispensable  to  afford  them  this  relief,  even 
without  having  the  comfort  of  any  audience  or  sympathy  what- 
ever. As  the  knight-errants  of  old  relieved  their  minds  by  carv- 
ing their  mistress's  names  in  deserts,  and  wildernesses,  and 
other  savage  places  where  there  was  no  probability  of  there  ever 
being  anybody  to  read  them,  so  did  Miss  Susan  Nipper  curl  her 
snub  nose  into  drawers  and  wardrobes,  put  awav  winks  of  dis- 
paragement in  cupboards,  shed  derisive  squ  uts  into  store 
pitchers,  and  contradict  and  call  names  out  in  the  passage. 

The  two  interlopers,  however,  blissfuliv  unconscious  of  the 
young  lady's  sentiments,  saw  little  Paul  safe  through  all  the 
stages  of  undressing,  airy  exercise,  supper  and  bed  ;  and  then 
sat  down  to  tea  before  the  fire.  The  two  children  now  lay. 
through  the  good  ofliccs  of  Polly,  in  one  room  ;  and  it  was  not 
until  the  ladies  were  established  at  their  tea-table  that  happen- 
ing to  look  towards  the  Little  beds,  they  thovight  of  Florence. 


PAULS  PROGRESS  AND  C/IRlSTEN/A'G.  53 

"  How  sound  she  sleeps !  "  said  Miss  Tox. 

"  Why,  you  know,  my  dear,  she  takes  a  great  deal  of  exer- 
cise in  the  course  of  the  day,"  returned  Mrs  Chick,  "  playing 
about  Little  Paul  so  much." 

"  She  is  a  curious  child,"  said  Miss  Tox. 

"  My  dear,"  retorted  Mrs.  Chick,  in  a  low  voice  :  "  Her 
mama,  all  over !  " 

"  Indeed  !  "  said  Miss  Tox.     "  Ah  dear  me  !  " 

A  tone  of  most  extraordinary  compassion  Miss  Tox  said  it 
in,  though  she  had  no  distinct  idea  why,  except  that  it  was  ex- 
pected of  her. 

"  Florence  will  never,  never,  never,  be  a  Dombey,"  said 
Mrs.  Chick,  not  if  she  lives  to  be  a  thousand  years  old." 

Miss  Tox  elevated  her  eyebrows,  and  was  agam  full  of  com- 
miseration. 

"  I  quite  fret  and  worry  myself  about  her,"  said  Mrs.  Chick, 
with  a  sigh  of  modest  merit.  "  I  really  don't  see  what  is  to 
become  of  her  when  she  grows  older,  or  what  position  she  is  to 
take.  She  don't  gain  on  her  papa  in  the  least.  How  can  one 
expect  she  should,  when  she  is  so  very  unlike  a  Dombey  .?  " 

Miss  Tox  looked  as  if  she  saw  no  way  out  of  such  cogent, 
argument  as  that,  at  all. 

"And  the  child,  you  see,"  said  Mrs.  Chick  in  deep  confi- 
dence., "  has  poor  Fanny's  nature.  She'll  never  make  an  elifort 
in  after-life,  Fll  venture  to  say.  Never!  She'll  never  wind 
and  twine  herself  about  her  papa's  heart  like — " 

"  Like  the  Ivy  ?  "  suggested  Miss  Tox. 

"  Like  the  Ivy,"  Mrs.  Chick  assented  "  Never !  She'll 
never  glide  and  nestle  Into  the  bosom  of  her  papa's  affections 
like — the — " 

"  Startled  iawn  ?  "  suggested  Miss  Tox. 

"Like  the  startled  fawn,"  said  Mrs.  Chick.  "  Never!  Poor 
Fanny  !     Yet,  how  I  loved  her  !  " 

"  You  must  not  distress  yourself,  my  dear,"  said  Miss  Tox, 
in  a  soothing  voice.  "  Now  really  !  You  have  too  much 
feeling." 

"  We  have  all  our  faults,"  said  Mrs  Chick,  weeping  and 
shaking  her  head.  "  I  dare  say  we  have.  I  never  was  blind 
to  hers.  I  never  said  I  was.  Far  from  it.  Yet  how  I  loved 
her ! " 

What  a  satisfaction  it  was  to  Mrs.  Chick — a  common-place 
piece  of  folly  enough,  compared  with  whom  her  sister-in-law 
had  been  a  very  angel  of  womanly  intelligence  and  gentleness 
—to  patronize  and  be  tender  to  the  memory  of  that  lady  .•  in 


5i 


DOMBEV  AND  SO^. 


exact  pursuance  of  her  conduct  to  her  in  her  hfe-time  t  and  to 
thoroughly  beUeve  J^.erself,  and  take  herself  in,  and  make  her 
self  uncommonly  comfortable  on  the  strength  of  her  toleration ! 
What  a  mighty  pleasant  virtue  toleration  should  be  when  we 
are  right,  to  be  so  very  pleasant  when  we  are  wrong,  and  quite 
unable  to  demonstrate  how  we  come  to  be  invested  with  the 
privilege  of  exercising  it  ' 

Mrs  Chick  was  yet  drying  her  eyes  and  shaking  her  head, 
when  Richards  made  bold  to  caution  her  that  Miss  Florence 
was  awake  and  sitting  in  her  bed  She  had  risen,  as  the  nurse 
said,  and  the  lashes  of  her  eyes  were  wet  with  tears.  But  no 
one  saw  them  glistening  save  Polly.  No  one  else  leant  over 
her,  and  whispered  soothing  words  to  her,  or  was  near  enough 
to  hear  the  flutter  of  her  beatnig  heart 

"Oh  !  dear  nurse!"  said  the  child,  looking  earnestly  up  in 
her  face,  "  let  me  lie  by  my  brother!  " 

"Why,  my  pet  ?"  said  Richards. 

"Oh!  I  think  he  loves  me,"  cried  the  child  wildly.  "  Let 
me  lie  by  him.     Pray  do  !  " 

Mrs.  Chick  interposed  with  some  motherly  words  about 
going  to  sleep  like  a  dear,  but  Florence  repeated  her  supplica 
lion,  wirh  a  frightened  look,  and  in  a  voice  broken  by  sobs  and 
tears. 

"  I'll  not  Afake  him,"  she  said,  covering  her  face  and  hang- 
ing down  her  head.  "  I'll  only  touch  him  with  my  hand,  and 
go  to  sleep.  Oh,  pray,  pray,  let  me  lie  by  my  brother  tonighl, 
for  I  believe  he's  fond  of  me  !  " 

Richards  took  her  without  a  word,  and  carrying  iier  to  the 
little  bed  in  v/hich  the  infant  was  sleeping,  laid  her  down  by  his 
side.  She  crept  as  near  him  as  she  could  without  disturbing 
his  rest  %  and  stretching  out  one  arm  so  that  it  timidly  em- 
braced his  neck,  and  hiding  her  face  on  the  other,  over  which 
her  damp  and  scattered  hair  fell  loose,  lay  motionless. 

*'  Poor  little  thing,"  said  Miss  Tox  ;  "she's  been  dreaming, 
I  dare  say." 

This  trivial  incident  had  so  interrupted  the  current  of  con- 
versation, that  It  was  difficult  of  resumption  ;  and  Mrs.  Chick 
moreover  had  been  so  affected  by  the  contemplation  of  her 
own  tolerant  nature,  that  she  was  not  in  spirits.  The  two 
friends  accordingly  soon  made  an  end  of  their  tea,  and  a  ser- 
vant was  despatched  to  fetch  a  hsckney  cabriolet  for  Miss 
Tox.  Miss  Tox  had  great  experience  in  hackney  cabs,  and 
her  starting  in  one  was  generally  a  work  of  time,  as  she  was 
systematic  in  the  preparatory  arrangements. 


PAUL'S  PROGRESS  AXD  CIIRISTEiVlNG.  5J 

"  Have  the  goodness,  if  you  please,  Towlinson,"  said  Miss 
Tox,  "  first  of  all,  to  carry  out  a  pen  and  ink  and  take  his  num- 
ber legibly." 

"  Yes,  Miss,"  said  Towlinson. 

"  Then  if  you  please,  Towlinson,"  said  Miss  Tox,  "  have 
the  goodness  to  turn  the  cushion.  Which,"  said  Miss  Tox,  apart 
to  Mrs.  Chick,  "is  generally  damp,  my  dear." 

"  Yes,  Miss,"  said  Towlinson. 

"I'll  trouble  you  also,  if  you  please,"  said  Miss  Tox,  "with 
this  card  and  this  shilling.  He's  to  drive  to  the  card,  and  is  to 
understand  that  he  will  not  on  any  account  have  more  than  the 
shilling." 

"  No,  Miss,"  said  Towlinson. 

"And — I'm  sorry  to  give  you  so  much  trouble,  Towlinson," 
—said  Miss  Tox,  looking  at  him  pensively. 

"  Not  at  all.  Miss,"  said  Towlinson. 

"  Mention  to  the  man,  then,  if  you  please,  Towlinson,"  said 
Miss  Tox,  "  that  the  lady's  uncle  is  a  magistrate,  and  that  if  he 
gives  her  any  of  his  impertinence  he  will  be  punished  terribly. 
You  can  pretend  to  say  that,  if  you  please,  Towlinson,  in  a 
friendly  way,  and  because  you  know  it  was  done  to  another  man, 
ivho  died." 

"  Certainly,  Miss,"  said  Towlinson. 

"  And  now  good-night  to  my  sweet,  sweet,  sweet,  godson," 
said  Miss  Tox,  with  a  soft  shower  of  kisses  at  each  repetition 
of  the  adjective  ;  "  and  Louisa,  my  dear  friend,  promise  me  to 
take  a  little  something  warm  before  you  go  to  bed,  and  not  to 
distress  yourself !  " 

It  was  with  extreme  difficulty  that  Nipper,  the  black-eyed, 
who  looked  on  steadfastly,  contained  herself  at  this  crisis,  and, 
until  the  subsequent  departure  of  Mrs.  Chick.  But  the  nursery 
being  at  length  free  of  visitors,  she  made  herself  some  recom- 
pense for  her  late  restraint. 

"  You  might  keep  me  in  a  strait-waistcoat  for  six  weeks," 
said  Nipper,  "  and  when  I  got  it  off  I'd  only  be  more  aggra- 
vated, who  ever  heard  the  like  of  them  two  Griffins,  Mrs. 
Richards  ? " 

"  And  then  to  talk  of  having  been  dreaming,  poor  dear  ! " 
said  Polly. 

"  Oh  you  beauties  !  "  cried  Susan  Nipper,  affecting  to  salute 
the  door  by  which  the  ladies  had  departed.  "  Never  be  a  Dom^ 
bey  won't  she  ?  It's  to  be  hoped  she  won't,  we  don't  want  any 
more  such,  one's  enough." 

"  Don't  wake  the  children,  Susan,  dear,"  said  PoUy- 


56  DOME EY  AND  SON. 

"  I'm  very  much  beholden  to  you,  Mrs.  Richards,"  said 
Susan,  who  was  not  by  any  means  discriminating  in  her  wrath, 
"  and  really  feel  it  as  a  honor  to  receive  your  commands,  being 
a  black  slave  and  a  mulotter.  Mrs.  Richards,  if  there's  any 
other  orders,  you  can  give  me,  pray  mention  'em." 

"  Nonsense  ;  orders,"  said  Polly. 

"  Oh  !  bless  your  heart,  Mrs.  Richards,"  cried  Susan,  "  tem- 
poraries always  orders  permanencies  here,  didn't  you  know  that, 
why  wherever  was  you  born,  Mrs.  Richards  ?  Ikit  wherever 
you  was  born,  Mrs.  Richards,  pursued  Spitfire,  shaking  her 
head  resolutely,  "  and  whenever,  and  however  (which  is  best 
known  to  yourself),  you  may  bear  in  mind,  please,  that  it's  one 
thing  to  give  orders,  and  quite  another  thing  to  take  'em.  A 
person  may  tell  a  person  to  dive  off  a  bridge  head-foremost 
into  five-and-forty  feet  of  water,  Mrs.  Richards,  but  a  person 
may  be  very  far  from  diving." 

"  There  now,"  said  Polly,  "  you're  angry  because  you're  a 
good  little  thing,  and  fond  of  Miss  Florence  ;  and  yet  you  turn 
round  on  me,  because  there's  nobody  else." 

"  It's  very  easy  for  some  to  keep  their  tempers,  and  be  soft- 
spoken,  Mrs.  Richards,"  returned  Susan,  slightly  mollified, 
"when  their  child's  made  as  much  of  as  a  prince,  and  is  petted 
and  patted  till  it  wishes  its  friends  further,  but  when  a  sweet 
young  pretty  innocent,  that  never  ought  to  have  a  cross  word 
spoken  to  or  of  it,  is  run  down,  the  case  is  very  different  indeed. 
My  goodness  gracious  me.  Miss  Floy,  you  naughty,  sinful  child, 
if  you  don't  shut  your  eyes  this  minute,  I'll  call  in  them  hobgob- 
lins that  lives  in  the  cock-loft  to  come  and  eat  you  up  alive  !  " 

Here  Miss  Nipper  made  a  horrible  lowing,  supposed  to 
issue  from  a  conscientious  goblin  of  the  bull  species,  impatient 
to  discharge  the  severe  duty  of  his  position.  Having  further 
composed  her  young  charge  by  covering  her  head  with  the  bed- 
clothes, and  making  three  or  four  angry  dabs  at  the  pillow,  she 
folded  her  arms,  and  screwed  up  her  mouth,  and  sat  looking 
at  the  fire  for  the  rest  of  the  evening. 

Though  little  Paul  was  said,  in  nursery  phrase,  "  to  take  a 
deal  of  notice  for  his  age,"  he  took  as  little  notice  of  all  this  as 
of  the  preparations  for  his  cnristening  on  the  next  day  but  one ; 
which  nevertheless  went  on  about  him,  as  to  his  personal  ap- 
parel, and  that  of  his  sister  and  the  two  nurses,  with  great 
activity.  Neither  did  he,  on  the  arrival  of  the  appointcid  morn- 
ing, show  any  sense  of  its  importance  ;  being,  on  the  contrary, 
unusually  inclined  to  sleep,  and  unusually  inclined  to  take  it 
ill  in  his  ajttendants  that  they  dressed  him  to  go  out. 


PAUVS  PROGkESS  AND  CHklSTENlNG. 


%) 


It  happened  to  be  an  iron-gray  autumnal  day,  with  a  shrewd 
cast  wind  blowing — a  day  in  keeping  with  the  proceedings. 
Mr.  Dombey  represented  in  himself  the  wind,  the  shade,  and 
the  autumn  of  the  christening.  He  stood  in  his  library  to  re- 
ceive the  company,  as  hard  and  cold  as  the  weather  ;  and  when 
he  looked  out  through  the  glass  room,  at  the  trees  in  the  little 
garden,  their  brown  and  yellow  leaves  came  fluttering  down,  as 
if  he  blighted  them. 

Ugh  !  They  were  black,  cold  rooms ;  and  seemed  to  be  in 
mourning  like  the  inmates  of  the  house.  The  books  precisely 
matched  as  to  size,  and  drawn  up  in  line,  like  soldiers,  looked 
in  their  cold,  hard,  slippery  uniforms,  as  if  they  had  but  one 
idea  among  them,  and  that  was  a  freezer.  The  bookcase, 
glazed  and  locked,  repudiated  all  familiarities.  Mr.  Pitt,  in 
bronze  on  the  top,  with  no  trace  of  his  celestial  origin  about 
him,  guarded  the  unattainable  treasure  like  an  enchanted  Moor. 
A  dusty  urn  at  each  high  corner,  dug  up  from  an  ancient  tomb, 
preached  desolation  and  decay,  as  from  two  pulpits  ;  and  the 
chimney-glass,  reflecting  Mr.  Dombey  and  his  portrait  at  one 
blow,  seemed  fraught  with  melancholy  meditations. 

The  stiff  and  stark  fire-irons  appeared  to  claim  a  nearer  re- 
lationship than  anything  else  there  to  Mr.  Dombey,  with  his 
buttoned  coat,  his  white  cravat,  his  heavy  gold  watch-chain,  and 
his  creaking  boots.  But  this  was  before  the  arrival  of  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Chick,  his  lawful  relatives,  who  soon  j^resented  them- 
selves. 

"  My  dear  Paul,"  Mrs.  Chick  murmured,  as  she  embraced 
him,  "  the  beginning,  I  hope,  of  many  joyful  days  !  " 

"  Thank  you,  Louisa,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  grimly.  "  How 
do  you  do,  Mr.  John  ?  " 

"  How  do  you  do,  sir  1  "  said  Chick. 

He  gave  Mr.  Dombey  his  hand,  as  if  he  feared  it  might 
electrify  him,  Mr.  Dombey  took  it  as  if  it  were  a  fish,  or  sea- 
weed, or  some  such  clammy  substance,  and  immediately  re- 
turned it  to  him  with  exalted  politeness. 

"  Perhaps,  Louisa,'  said  Mr.  Dombey,  slightly  turning  his 
head  in  his  cravat,  as  if  it  were  a  socket,  "  you  would  have  pre- 
ferred a  fire  ?  " 

"  Oh,  my  dear  Paul,  no,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  who  had  much 
ado  to  keep  her  teeth  from  chattering  ;  "not  for  me." 

"  Mr.  John,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "  you  are  not  sensible  of 
any  chill  ?  " 

Mr.  John,  who  had  already  got  both  his  hands  in  his  pockets 
over  the  wrists   and  was  on  the  very  threshold  of  that  same 


^8  DO  MB  BY  AXD  SON. 

canine  chorus  whicli  had  given  Mrs.  Chick  so  mucK  offence 
on  a  former  occasion,  protested  that  he  was  perfectly  com- 
fortable. 

He  added  in  a  low  voice,  "  With  my  tiddle  tol  toor  rul  " — 
when  he  was  providentially  stopped  by  Towlinson.  who  an- 
nounced : 

"  Miss  Tox  !  " 

And  enter  that  fair  enslaver,  with  a  blue  nose  and  in- 
describably frosty  face,  referable  to  her  being  very  thinly  clad 
in  a  maze  of  fluttering  odds  and  ends,  to  do  honor  to  the  cere- 
mony. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Miss  Tox  ?  "  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

Miss  Tox,  in  the  midst  of  her  spreading  gauzes,  went  down 
altogether  like  an  opera-glass  shutting-up  ;  she  curtseyed  so 
low,  in  acknowledgment  of  Mr.  Dombey's  advancing  a  step  or 
two  to  meet  her. 

"  I  can  never  forget  this  occasion,  sir,"  said  Miss  Tox, 
softly.  "  'Tis  impossible.  My  dear  Louisa,  I  can  hardly  be- 
lieve the  evidence  of  my  senses." 

If  Miss  Tox  could  believe  the  evidence  of  one  of  her  senses, 
it  was  a  very  cold  day.  That  was  quite  clear.  She  took  an 
early  opportunity  of  promoting  the  circulation  in  the  tip  of  her 
nose  by  secretly  chafing  it  with  her  pocket-handkerchief,  lest, 
by  its  very  low  temperature,  it  should  disagreeably  astonish  the 
baby  when  she  came  to  kiss  it. 

The  baby  soon  appeared,  carried  in  great  glory  by  Richards  ; 
while  Florence,  in  custody  of  that  active  young  constable,  vSusan 
Nipper,  brought  up  the  rear.  Though  the  whole  nursery  party 
were  dressed  by  this  time  in  lighter  mourning  than  at  first,  tliere 
was  enough  in  the  appearance  of  the  bereaved  children  to  make 
the  day  no  brighter.  The  baby  too — it  might  have  been  Miss 
Tox's  nose — began  to  cry.  Thereby,  as  it  happened,  prevent- 
ing Mr.  Chick  from  the  awkward  fulfilment  of  a  very  honest 
purpose  he  had ;  which  was,  to  make  much  of  Florence.  Foi 
this  gentleman,  insensible  to  the  superior  claims  of  a  perfect 
Dombey  (perhaps  on  account  of  having  the  honor  to  be  united 
to  a  Dombey  himself,  and  being  familiar  with  excellence),  really 
liked  her,  and  showed  that  he  liked  her  and  was  about  to  show 
it  in  his  own  way  now,  when  Paul  cried,  and  his  helpmate  stopped 
him  short. 

"  Now  Florence,  child !  "  said  her  aunt,  briskly,  "  what  are 
you  doing,  love  ?  Show  yourself  to  him.  Fngage  his  attention, 
Kiy  dear  ! " 

The  atmosphere  became  or  might  have   become  colder  and 


PA  l/L'S  PkOGIiESS  AND  CHRISTENING.  5^ 

colder,  when  Mr.  Dombey  stood  frigidly  watching  his  littla 
daughter,  who,  clapping  her  hands,  and  standing  on  tiptoe  be- 
fore the  throne  of  his  son  and  heir,  lured  him  to  bend  down 
from  his  high  estate,  and  look  at  her.  Some  honest  act  of 
Richards's  may  have  aided  the  effect,  but  he  did  look  down,  and 
held  his  peace.  As  his  sister  hid  behind  her  nurse,  he  followed 
her  with  his  eyes  :  and  when  she  peeped  out  with  a  merry  cry 
to  him,  he  sprang  up  and  crowed  lustily — laughing  outright 
when  she  ran  in  upon  him ;  and  seeming  to  fondle  her  curls 
with  his  tiny  hands,  while  she  smothered  him  with  kisses. 

Was  Mr.  Dombey  pleased  to  see  this  ?  He  testified  no 
pleasure  by  the  relaxation  of  a  nerve ;  but  outward  tokens  of 
any  kind  of  feeling  were  unusual  with  him.  If  any  sunbeam 
stole  into  the  room  to  light  the  children  at  their  play,  it  never 
reached  his  face.  He  looked  on  so  fixedly  and  coldly,  that 
the  warm  light  vanished  even  from  the  laughing  eyes  of  little 
Florence,  when,  at  last,  they  happened  to  meet  his. 

It  was  a  dull,  gray,  autumn  day  indeed,  and  in  a  minute's 
pause  and  silence  that  took  place,  the  leaves  fell  sorrowfully. 

"  Mr.  John,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  referring  to  his  watch,  and 
assuming  his  hat  and  gloves.  "  Take  my  sister,  if  you  please  ; 
my  arm  to-day  is  Miss  Tox's.  You  had  better  go  first  with 
Master  Paul,  Richards.     Be  very  careful." 

In  Mr.  Dombey's  carriage,  Dombey  and  Son,  Miss  Tox, 
Mrs.  Chick,  Richards,  and  Florence.  In  a  little  carriage  follow- 
ing it,  Susan  Nipper  and  the  owner  Mr,  Chick.  Susan  looking 
out  of  window,  without  intermission,  as  a  relief  from  the  em- 
barrassment of  confronting  the  large  face  of  that  gentleman, 
and  thinking  whenever  anything  rattled  that  he  was  putting 
up  in  paper  an  appropriate  pecuniary  compliment  for  herself. 

Once  upon  the  road  to  church,  Mr.  Dombey  clapped  his 
hands  for  the  amusement  of  his  son.  At  which  instance  of 
parental  enthusiasm  Miss  Tox  was  enchanted.  But  exclusive 
of  this  incident,  the  chief  difference  between  the  christening 
party  and  a  party  in  a  mourning  coach,  consisted  in  the  colors 
of  the  carriage  and  horses. 

Arrived  at  the  church  steps,  they  were  received  by  a  por- 
tentous beadle.  Mr.  Dombey  dismounting  first  to  help  the 
ladies  out,  and  standing  near  him  at  the  church  door,  looked 
like  another  beadle.  A  beadle  less  gorgeous  but  more  dread- 
ful ;  the  beadle  of  private  life;  the  beadle  of  our  business  and 
our  bosoms. 

Miss  Tox's  hand  trembled  as  she  slipped  it  through  Mr. 
Dombey's  arm,  and  felt  herself  escorted  up  the  steps,  preceded 


$(,  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

by  a  cocked  hat  and  a  Babylonian  collar.  It  seemed  fot  A 
moment  like  that  other  solemn  institution,  "  Wilt  thou  have  this 
man,  Lucretia?"     "Yes,  I  will." 

"  Please  to  bring  the  child  in  quick  out  of  the  air  there," 
whispered  the  beadle,  holding  open  the  inner  door  of  the 
church. 

Little  Paul  might  have  asked  with  Hamlet  "  into  my  grave  ?  " 
so  chill  and  earthy  was  the  place.  The  tall  shrouded  pulpit 
and  reading  desk  ;  the  dreary  perspective  of  empty  pews  stretch- 
ing away  under  the  galleries,  and  empty  benches  mounting  to 
the  roof  and  lost  in  the  shadow  of  the  great  grim  organ  ;  the 
dusty  matting  and  cold  stone  slabs ;  the  grisly  free  seats  in 
the  aisles  ;  and  the  damp  corner  by  the  bell-rope,  where  the 
black  tressels  used  for  funerals  were  stowed  away,  along  with 
some  shovels  and  baskets,  and  a  coil  or  two  of  deadly-looking 
rope ;  the  strange,  unusual,  uncomfortable  smell,  and  the 
cadaverous  light ;  were  all  in  unison.  It  was  a  cold  and  dis- 
mal scene. 

"There's  a  wedding  just  on,  Sir,"  said  the  beadle,  "  but  it'll 
be  over  directly,  if  you'll  walk  into  the  westry  here." 

Before  he  turned  again  to  lead  the  way,  he  gave  Mr.  Dom- 
bey  a  bow  and  a  half  smile  of  recognition,  importing  that  he 
(the  beadle)  remembered  to  have  had  the  pleasure  of  attending 
on  him  when  he  buried  his  wife,  and  hoped  he  had  enjoyed  him- 
self since. 

The  very  wedding  looked  dismal  as  they  passed  in  front  of 
the  altar.  The  bride  was  too  old  and  the  bridegroom  too  young, 
and  a  superannuated  beau  with  one  eye  and  an  eye-glass  stuck 
in  its  blank  companion,  was  giving  away  the  lady,  while  the 
friends  were  shivering.  In  the  vestry  the  fire  was  smoking  ;  and 
an  over-aged  and  over-worked  and  under-paid  attorney's  clerk, 
"making  a  search,"  was  running  his  forefinger  down  the  parch- 
ment pages  of  an  immense  register  (one  of  a  long  series  of 
similar  volumes)  gorged  with  burials.  Over  the  fireplace  was  a 
ground-plan  of  the  vaults  underneath  the  church  ;  and  Mr. 
Chick,  skimming  the  literary  portion  of  it  aloud,  by  way  of  en- 
livening the  company,  read  the  reference  to  Mrs.  Dombey's  tomb 
in  full,  before  he  could  stop  himself. 

After  another  cold  interval,  a  wheezy  little  pew-openei 
afflicted  with  an  asthma,  appropriate  to  the  churchyard,  if  not 
to  the  church,  summoned  them  to  the  font.  Here  they  waited 
some  little  tine  while  the  marriage  party  enrolled  themselves; 
and  meanwhile  the  wheezy  little  pew-opener — partly  in  con- 
lequence  of  her  infirmity,  and  partly  that  the  maniage  party 


PAUL'S  PROGRESS  AND  CHRISTENmC,  6 1 

might  not  forget  her — went  about  the  building  coughing  like  a 
grampus. 

Presently  the  clerk  (the  only  cheerful-looking  object  there, 
and  he  was  an  undertaker)  came  up  with  a  jug  of  warm  water, 
and  said  something,  as  he  poured  it  into  the  font,  about  taking 
the  chill  off;  which  millions  of  gallons  boiling  hot  could  not 
have  done  for  the  occasion.  Then  the  clergyman,  an  amiable 
and  mild-looking  young  curate,  but  obviously  afraid  of  the  baby, 
appeared  like  the  principal  character  in  a  ghost-story,  "  a  tall 
figure  all  in  white  ;"  at  sight  of  whom  Paul  rent  the  air  with  his 
cries,  and  never  left  off  again  till  he  was  taken  out  black  in  the 
face. 

Even  when  that  event  had  happened,  to  the  great  relief  of 
everybody,  he  was  heard  under  the  portico,  during  the  rest  of 
the  ceremony,  now  fainter,  now  louder,  now  hushed,  now  burst- 
ing forth  again  with  an  irrepressible  sense  of  his  wrongs.  This 
so  distracted  the  attention  of  the  two  ladies,  that  Mrs.  Chick 
was  constantly  deploying  into  the  centre  aisle,  to  send  out  mes- 
sages by  the  pew-opener,  while  Miss  Tox  kept  her  Prayer-book 
open  at  the  Gunpowder  Plot,  and  occasionally  read  responses 
from  that  service. 

During  the  whole  of  these  proceedings,  Mr.  Dombey  re- 
mained as  impassive  and  gentlemanly  as  ever,  and  perhaps  as- 
sisted in  making  it  so  cold,  that  the  young  curate  smoked 
at  the  mouth  as  he  read.  The  only  time  that  he  unbent  his 
visage  in  the  least,  was  when  the  clergyman,  in  delivering  (very 
unaffectedly  and  simply)  the  closing  exhortation,  relative  to  the 
future  examination  of  the  child  by  the  sponsors,  happened  to 
rest  his  eye  on  Mr.  Chick  ;  and  then  Mr.  Dombey  might  have 
been  seen  to  express  by  a  majestic  look,  that  he  would  like  to 
catch  him  at  it. 

It  might  have  been  well  for  Mr.  Dombey,  if  he  had  thought 
of  his  own  dignity  a  little  less  ;  and  had  thought  of  the  great 
origin  and  purpose  of  the  ceremony  in  which  he  took  so  formal 
and  so  stiff  a  part,  a  little  more.  His  arrogance  contrasted 
strangely  with  its  history. 

When  it  was  all  over,  he  again  gave  his  arm  to  Miss  Tox, 
and  conducted  her  to  the  vestry-,  where  he  informed  the  clergy- 
man how  much  pleasure  it  would  have  gi\'en  him  to  have 
solicited  the  honor  of  his  company  at  dinner,  but  for  the  un- 
fortunate state  of  his  household  affairs.  The  register  signed, 
and  the  fees  paid,  and  the  pew-opener  (whose  cough  was  very 
bad  again)  remembered,  and  the  beadle  gratified,  and  the  sex- 
ton (who  was  accidentally  on  the  door-steps,  looking  with  great 


(t  DOMHEV  AND  SON. 

interest  at  the  weather)  not  forgotten,  they  got  into  the  carriage 
again,  and  drove  home  in  the  same  bleak  fellowship. 

There  they  found  Mr.  Pitt  turning  up  his  nose  at  a  cold  col 
lation,  set  forth  in  a  cold  pomp  of  glass  and  silver,  and  looking 
more  like  a  dead  dinner  lying  in  state  than  a  social  refresh- 
ment. On  their  arrival,  Miss  Tox  produced  a  mug  for  her  god- 
son, and  Mr.  Chick  a  knife  and  fork  and  spoon  in  a  case.  Mr. 
Dombey  also  produced  a  bracelet  for  Miss  Tox ;  and,  on  the 
receipt  of  this  token,  Miss  Tox  was  tenderiy  affected. 

"  Mr.  John,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "  will  you  take  the  bottom 
of  the  table,  if  you  please.  What  have  you  got  there,  Mr. 
John  ? " 

*'  I  have  got  a  cold  fillet  of  veal  here.  Sir,"  replied  Mr. 
Chick,  rubbing  his  numbed  hands  hard  together.  "  What  have 
you  got  there.  Sir  ?  " 

"This,"  returned  Mr.  Dombey,  "is  some  cold  preparation 
of  calf's  head,  I  think.  I  see  cold  fowls — ham — patties — 
salad — lobster.  Miss  Tox  will  do  me  the  honor  of  taking 
some  wine  ?     Champagne  to  Miss  Tox." 

There  was  a  toothache  in  everything.  The  wine  was  so 
bitter  cold  that  it  forced  a  little  scream  from  Miss  Tox,  which 
she  had  great  difficulty  in  turning  into  a  "  Hem  !  "  The  veal 
had  come  from  such  an  airy  pantry,  that  the  first  taste  of  it 
had  struck  a  sensation  as  of  cold  lead  to  Mr.  Chick's  extrem- 
ities. Mr.  Dombey  alone  remained  unmoved.  He  might 
have  been  hung  up  for  sale  at  a  Russian  fair  as  a  specimen  of 
a  frozen  gentleman. 

The  prevailing  influence  was  too  much  even  for  his  sister. 
She  made  no  effort  at  flattery  or  small  talk,  and  directed  all 
her  efforts  to  looking  as  warm  as  she  could. 

"  Well,  Sir,"  said  Mr.  Chick,  making  a  desperate  plunge, 
after  a  long  silence,  and  filling  a  glass  of  sherry ;  "  I  shall 
drink  this,  if  you'll  allow  me.  Sir,  to  little  Paul." 

"  Bless  him  1 "  murmured  Miss  Tox,  taking  a  sip  of  wine. 

**  Dear  little  Dombey  1 "  murmured  Mrs.  Chick. 

"  Mr.  John,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  with  severe  gravity,  "  my 
son  would  feel  and  express  himself  obliged  to  you,  I  have  no 
doubt,  if  he  could  appreciate  the  favor  you  have  done  him.  He 
will  prove,  in  time  to  come,  I  trust,  equal  to  any  resporsibilily 
that  the  obliging  disposition  of  his  relations  and  friends,  in 
private,  or  the  onerous  nature  of  our  position,  in  public,  may 
impose  upon  him." 

The  tone  in  which  this  was  said  admitting  of  nothing  more, 
Mr.  Chick  relapsed  into  low  spirits  and  silence.    Not  so  Misi 


PAUVS  PROGRESS  AND  CHRISTENTNG.  63 

Tox,  who,  having  listened  to  Mr.  Dombey  with  even  a  more 
ennphatic  attention  than  usual,  and  with  a  more  expressive 
tendency  of  her  head  to  one  side,  now  leant  across  the  table, 
and  said  to  Mrs.  Chick  softly: 

"  Louisa  I  " 

"  My  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Chick. 

"  Onerous  nature  of  our  position  in  public  may — I  have 
forgotten  the  exact  term." 

"  Expose  him  to,"  said  Mrs.  Chick. 

"Pardon  me,  my  dear,"  returned  Miss  Tox,  "  I  think  not 
It  was  more  rounded  and  flowing.  Obliging  disposition  of 
relations  and  friends  in  private,  or  onerous  nature  of  position 
in  public — may — impose  upon  him  !  " 

"  Impose  upon  him,  to  be  sure,"  said  Mrs.  Chick. 

Miss  Tox  struck  her  delicate  hands  together  lightly,  in  tri- 
umph ;  and  added,  casting  up  her  eyes,  "  eloquence  indeed  1 " 

Mr.  Dombey,  in  the  meanwhile,  had  issued  orders  for  the 
attendance  of  Richards,  who  now  entered  curtseying,  but  with- 
out the  baby ;  Paul  being  asleep  after  the  fatigues  of  the  morn- 
ing. Mr.  Dombey,  having  delivered  a  glass  of  wine  to  this 
vassal,  addressed  her  in  the  following  words  :  Miss  Tox  pre- 
viously settling  her  head  on  one  side,  and  making  other  little 
arrangements  for  engraving  them  on  her  heart. 

"  During  the  six  months  or  so,  Richards,  which  have  seen 
you  an  inmate  of  this  house,  you  have  done  your  duty.  De- 
siring to  connect  some  little  service  to  you  with  this  occasion,  ] 
considered  how  I  could  best  effect  that  object,  and  I  also  ad- 
vised with  my  sister,  Mrs.  — " 

"  Chick,"  inter^Dosed  the  gentleman  of  that  name. 

''Oh,  hush  if  yon  J)kase / "  said  Miss  Tox. 

"  I  was  about  to  say  to  you,  Richards,"  resumed  Mr.  Dom* 
bey,  with  an  appalling  glance  at  Mr.  John,  "that  I  was  further 
assisted  in  my  decision,  by  the  recollection  of  a  conversation  I 
held  with  your  husband  in  this  room,  on  the  occasion  of  your 
being  hired,  when  he  disclosed  to  me  the  melancholy  fact  that 
your  family,  himself  at  the  head,  were  sunk  and  steeped  in 
ignorance." 

Richards  quailed  under  the  magnificence  of  the  reproof. 

"  I  am  far  from  being  friendly,"  pursued  Mr.  Dombey,  "  to 
what  is  called  by  persons  of  levelling  sentiments,  general  edu- 
cation. But  it  is  necessary  that  the  inferior  classes  should 
continue  to  be  taught  to  know  their  position,  and  to  conduct 
themselves  properly.  So  far  I  approve  of  schools.  Having 
the  power  of  nominating-  a  child  on    the  foundation  of  an 


if 4  DOMBEY  AA^D  SON" 

ancient  establishment,  called  (from  a  worshipful  company)  thi 
Charitable  Grinders  ;  where  not  only  is  a  wholesome  education 
bestowed  upon  the  scholars,  but  where  a  dress  and  badge  is 
likewise  provided  for  them ;  I  have  (first  communicating, 
through  Mrs.  Chick,  with  your  family)  nominated  your  eldest 
son  to  an  existing  vacancy  ;  and  he  has  this  day,  I  am  informed, 
assumed  the  habit.  The  number  of  her  son,  I  believe,"  said 
Mr.  Dombey,  turning  to  his  sister  and  speaking  of  the  child  as 
if  he  were  a  hackney-coach,  *'is  one  hundred  and  forty-seven. 
Louisa,  you  can  tell  her." 

"One  hundred  and  forty-seven,"  said  Mrs.  Chick.  "The 
dress,  Richards,  is  a  nice,  warm,  blue  baize  tailed  coat  and  cap, 
turned  up  with  orange-colored  binding;  red  worsted  stockings j 
and  very  strong  leather  small-clothes.  One  might  wear  the 
articles  one's-self,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  with  enthusiasm,  "  and  be 
grateful." 

"  There,  Richards  !  "  said  Miss  Tox.  "  Now,  indeed,  you 
may  be  proud.     The  Charitable  Grinders ! " 

"  I  am  sure  I  am  very  much  obliged,  Sir,"  returned  Richards 
faintly,  "  and  take  it  very  kind  that  you  should  remember  my 
little  ones."  At  the  same  time  a  vision  of  Biler  as  a  Charitable 
Grinder,  with  his  very  small  legs  encased  in  the  serviceable 
clothing  described  by  Mrs.  Chick,  swam  before  Richards's  eyes, 
and  made  them  water. 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you  have  so  much  feeling,  Rich~ 
ards,"  said  Miss  Tox. 

"  It  makes  one  almost  hope,  it  really  does,"  said  Mrs. 
Chick,  who  prided  herself  on  taking  trustful  views  of  human 
nature,  "  that  there  may  yet  be  some  faint  spark  of  gratitude 
and  right  feeling  in  the  world." 

Richards  deferred  to  these  com.pliments  by  curtseying  and 
murmuring  her  thanks  ;  but  finding  it  quite  impossible  to  re- 
cover her  spirits  from  the  disorder  into  which  they  had  been 
thrown  by  the  image  of  her  son  in  his  precocious  nether  gar- 
ments, she  gradually  approached  the  door  and  was  heartily  re^ 
lieved  to  escape  by  it. 

Such  temporary  indications  of  a  partial  thaw  that  had  ap- 
peared with  her,  vanished  with  her  ;  and  the  frost  set  in  again, 
as  cold  and  as  hard  as  ever.  Mr.  Chick  w-as  twice  heard  to  hum 
a  tune  at  the  bottom  of  the  table,  but  on  both  occasions  it  was 
a  fragment  of  the  Dead  March  in  Saul.  The  party  seemed  to 
get  colder  and  colder,  and  to  be  gradually  resolving  itself  into 
a  congealed  and  solid  stale,  like  the  collation  round  which  it 
Wf^s  assembled.    At  length  Mrs.  Chigk  Ipoked  4t  Mi§§  Tox,  ^nd 


PAUVS  PROGRESS  AND  CHRISTENING.  65. 

Miss  Tox  returned  the  look,  and  they  both  rose  and  said  it  was 
really  time  to  go.  Mr.  Dombey  receiving  this  announcement 
with  perfect  equanimity,  they  took  leave  of  that  gentleman,  and 
presently  departed  under  the  protection  of  Mr.  Chick  ;  who, 
when  they  had  turned  their  backs  upon  the  house  and  left  its 
master  in  his  usual  solitary  state,  put  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
threw  himself  back  in  the  carriage,  and  whistled,  "  With  a  hey 
ho  chevy  !  "  all  through  ;  conveying  into  his  face  as  he  did  so, 
an  expression  of  such  gloomy  and  terrible  defiance,  that  Mrs. 
Chick  dared  not  protest,  or  in  any  way  molest  him. 

Richards,  though  she  had  little  Paul  on  her  lap,  could  not 
forget  her  own  first-born.  She  felt  it  was  ungrateful  ;  but  the 
influence  of  the  day  fell  even  on  the  Charitable  Grinders,  and 
she  could  hardly  help  regarding  his  pewter  badge,  number  one 
hundred  and  forty-seven,  as,  somehow,  a  part  of  its  formality 
and  sternness.  She  spoke,  too,  in  the  nursery,  of  his  "  blessed 
legs,"  and  was  again  troubled  by  his  spectre  in  uniform. 

"  I  don't  know  what  I  wouldn't  give,"  said  Polly,  "  to  see 
the  poor  little  dear  before  he  gets  used  to  'em." 

"  Why,  then,  I  tell  you  what,  Mrs.  Richards,"  retorted  Nip- 
per, who  had  been  admitted  to  her  confidence,  "  see  him  and 
make  your  mind  easy." 

"  Mr.  Dombey  wouldn't  like  it,"  said  Polly. 

"  Oh  wouldn't  he,  Mrs.  Richards  1 "  retorted  Nipper,  "  he'd 
like  it  very  much,  I  think,  when  he  was  asked." 

"  You  wouldn't  ask  him,  I  suppose,  at  all  ? "  said  Polly. 

"  No,  Mrs.  Richards,  quite  contrary,"  returned  Susan,  "  and 
them  two  inspectors  Tox  and  Chick,  not  intending  to  be  on 
duty  to-morrow,  as  I  heard  'em  say,  me  and  Miss  Floy  will  go 
along  with  you  to-morrow  morning,  and  welcome,  Mrs.  Rich- 
ards, if  you  like,  for  we  may  as  well  walk  there,  as  up  and 
down  a  street,  and  better  too." 

Polly  rejected  the  idea  pretty  stoutly  at  first ;  but  by  little 
and  little  she  began  to  entertain  it,  as  she  entertained  more 
and  more  distinctly  the  forbidden  pictures  of  her  children,  and 
her  own  home.  At  length,  arguing  that  there  could  be  no 
great  harm  in  calling  for  a  moment  at  the  door,  she  yielded  to 
the  Nipper  proposition. 

The  matter  being  settled  thus,  little  Paul  began  to  cry 
most  piteously,  as  if  he  had  a  foreboding  that  no  good  would 
come  of  it. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  the  child  ?  "  asked  Susan. 

"  He's  cold,  I  think,"  said  Polly,  walking  with  him  to  and 
fro,  and  hushing  him. 


^  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

It  was  a  bleak  autumnal  afternoon  indeed  ;  and  as  she 
walked,  and  hushed,  and,  glancing  through  the  dreary  windows, 
pressed  the  little  fellow  closer  to  her  breast  the  withered  leaves 
came  showering  down. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Paul's  second  deprivation. 

Polly  was  beset  by  so  many  misgivings  in  the  morning, 
that  but  for  the  incessant  promptings  of  her  black-eyed  com- 
panion, she  vv'ould  have  abandoned  all  thoughts  of  the  expedi- 
tion, and  formally  petitioned  for  leave  to  see  one  hundred  and 
forty-seven,  under  the  awful  shadow  of  Mr,  Dombey's  roof. 
But  Susan,  who  was  personally  disposed  in  favor  of  the  excur- 
sion, and  who  (like  Tony  Lumpkin),  if  she  could  bear  the  dis- 
appointments of  other  people  with  tolerable  fortitude,  could  not 
abide  to  disappoint  herself,  threw  so  many  ingenious  doubts  in 
the  way  of  this  second  thought,  and  stimulated  the  original  in- 
tention with  so  many  ingenious  arguments,  that  almost  as  soon 
as  Mr.  Dombey's  stately  back  was  turned,  and  that  gentleman 
was  pursuing  his  daily  road  towards  the  City,  his  unconscious 
son  was  on  his  way  to  Staggs's  Gardens. 

This  euphonious  locality  was  situated  in  a  suburb,  known 
by  the  inhabitants  of  Staggs's  Gardens  by  the  name  of  Camber- 
ling  Town  ;  adesignation  which  the  Strangers'  Map  of  London, 
as  printed  (with  a  view  to  pleasant  and  commodious  reference) 
on  pocket-handkerchiefs,  condenses,  with  some  show  of  reason, 
into  Camden  Town.  Hither  the  two  nurses  bent  their  steps, 
accompanied  by  their  charges  ;  Richards  carrying  Paul,  of 
course,  and  Susan  leading  little  Florence  by  the  hand,  and  giv- 
ing her  such  jerks  and  pokes  from  time  to  time,  as  she  con- 
sidered it  wholesome  to  administer. 

The  first  shock  of  a  great  earthquake  had,  just  at  that 
period,  rent  the  whole  neighborhood  to  its  centre.  Traces  of 
Its  course  were  visible  on  every  side.  Houses  were  knocked 
down ;  streets  broken  through  and  stopped ;  deep  pits  and 
trenches  dug  in  the  ground  ;  enormous  heaps  of  earth  and  clay 
thrown  up ;  buildings  that  were  undermined  and  shaking, 
propped  by  great  beams  of  wood.  Here,  a  chaos  of  carts,  over 
thrown  and  jumbled  together,  lay  topsy-turvy  at  the  bottom  of 


Pa  ws  second  depriva  tioN.  67 

a  steep  unnatural  hill  ;  there,  confused  treasures  of  iron  soaked 
and  rusted  in  something  that  had  accidentally  become  a  pond. 
Everywhere  were  bridges  that  led  nowhere  ;  thoroughfares  that 
were  wholly  impassable  ;  Babel  towers  of  chimneys,  wanting 
half  their  height ;  temporary  wooden  houses  and  enclosures,  in 
the  most  unlikely  situations  ;  carcases  of  ragged  tenements,  and 
fragments  of  unfinished  walls  and  arches,  and  piles  of  scaffold- 
mg,  and  wildernesses  of  bricks,  and  giant  forms  of  cranes,  and 
tripods  straddling  above  nothing.  There  were  a  hundred  thou- 
sand shapes  and  substances  of  incompleteness,  wildly  mingledt 
out  of  their  places,  upside  down,  burrowing  in  the  earth,  aspir- 
ing in  the  air,  mouldering  in  the  water,  and  unintelligible  as  any 
dream.  Hot  springs  and  fiery  eruptions,  the  usual  attendants 
upon  earthquakes,  lent  their  contributions  of  confusion  to  the 
scene.  Boiling  water  hissed  and  heaved  within  dilapidated 
walls ;  whence,  also,  the  glare  and  roar  of  flames  came  issuing 
forth  ;  and  mounds  of  ashes  blocked  up  rights  of  way,  and 
wholly  changed  the  law  and  custom  of  the  neighborhood. 

In  short,  the  yet  unfinished  and  unopened  Railroad  was  !n 
progress  ;  and,  from  the  very  core  of  all  this  dire  disorder, 
trailed  smoothly  away,  upon  its  mighty  course  of  civilization  and 
improvement. 

But  as  yet,  the  neighborhood  was  shy  to  own  the  Railroad. 
One  or  two  bold  speculators  had  projected  streets  ;  and  one  had 
built  a  little,  but  had  stopped  among  the  mud  and  ashes  to  con- 
sider farther  of  it.  A  bran-new  Tavern,  redolent  of  fresh  mor- 
tar and  size,  and  fronting  nothing  at  all,  had  taken  for  its  sign 
The  Railway  Arms ;  but  that  might  be  rash  enterprise — and 
then  it  hoped  to  sell  drink  to  the  workmen.  So,  the  Excava- 
tors' House  of  Call  had  sprung  up  from  a  beer  shop  ;  and  tng 
old-established  Ham  and  Beef  Shop  had  become  the  Railway 
Eating  House,  with  a  roast  leg  of  pork  daily,  through  interested 
motives  of  a  similar  immediate  and  popular  description.  Lodg- 
ing-house keepers  were  favorable  in  like  manner ;  and  for  the 
like  reasons  were  not  to  be  trusted.  The  general  belief  was 
very  slow.  There  were  frowzy  fields,  and  cow-houses,  and  dung- 
hills, and  dustheaps,  and  ditches,  and  garden,  and  summer- 
houses,  and  carpet-beating  grounds,  at  the  very  door  of  the 
Railway.  Little  tumuli  of  oyster  shells  in  the  oyster  season, 
and  of  lobster  shells  in  the  lobster  season,  and  of  broken  crock- 
cry  and  faded  cabbage  leaves  in  all  seasons,  encroached  upon 
its  high  places.  Posts,  and  rails,  and  old  cautions  to  trespass* 
ers,  and  backs  of  mean  houses,  and  patches  of  wretched  vege- 
tation, stared  it  out  of  countenance.     Nothing  was  the  b'itter 


63  DOMBEY  AND  SO^r. 

for  it,  or  thought  of  being  so.  If  the  miserable  waste  ground 
lying  near  it  could  have  laughed,  it  would  have  laughed  it  to 
scorn,  like  many  of  the  miserable  neighbors. 

Staggs's  Gardens  was  uncommonly  incredulous.  It  was  a 
little  row  of  houses,  with  little  squalid  patches  of  ground  before 
them,  fenced  off  with  old  doors,  barrel  staves,  scraps  of 
tarpaulin,  and  dead  bushes ;  with  bottomless  tin  kettles  and 
exhausted  iron  fenders,  thrust  into  the  gaps.  Here,  the  Staggs's 
Gardeners  trained  scarlet  beans,  kept  fowls  and  rabbits,  erected 
rotten  summer  houses  (one  was  an  old  boat),  dried  clothes,  and 
smoked  pipes.  Some  were  of  opinion  that  Staggs's  Gardens 
derived  its  name  from  a  deceased  capitalist,  one  Mr.  Staggs, 
who  had  built  it  for  his  delectation.  Others,  who  had  a 
natural  taste  for  the  country,  held  that  it  dated  from  those 
rural  times  when  the  antlered  herd,  under  the  familiar  de- 
nomination of  Staggses,  had  resorted  to  its  shady  precincts. 
Be  this  as  it  may,  Staggs's  Gardens  was  regarded  by  its  popu- 
lation as  a  sacred  grove  not  to  be  withered  by  railroads  ;  and 
so  confident  were  they  generally  of  its  long  outliving  any  such 
ridiculous  inventions,  that  the  master  chimney-sweeper  at  the 
corner,  who  was  understood  to  take  the  lead  in  the  local 
politics  of  the  Gardens,  had  publicly  declared  that  on  the 
occasion  of  the  Railroad  opening,  if  ever  it  did  open,  two  of 
his  bo)'S  should  ascend  the  flues  of  his  dwelling,  with  in- 
structions to  hail  the  failure  with  derisive  jeers  from  the 
chimney-pots. 

To  this  unhallowed  spot,  the  very  name  of  which  had 
hitherto  been  carefully  concealed  from  Mr.  Dombey  by  his 
sister,  was  little  Paul  now  borne  by  Fate  and  Richards. 

"  That's  my  house,  Susan,"  said  Polly,  pointing  it  out. 

"  Is  it,  indeed,  Mrs.  Richards,"  said  Susan,  condescend- 
ingly. 

"  And  there's  my  sister  Jemima  at  the  door,  I  do  declare  !  " 
cried  Polly,  "  with  my  own  sweet  precious  baby  in  her  arms  !  " 

The  sight  added  such  an  extensive  pair  of  wings  to  Polly's 
impatience,  that  she  set  oH  down  the  Gardens  at  a  run,  and 
bouncing  on  Jemima,  changed  babies  with  her  in  a  twinkling  ; 
to  the  utter  astonishment  of  that  young  damsel,  on  whom  the 
heir  of  the  Dombeys  seemed  to  have  fallen  from  the  clouds. 

"  Why,  Polly  !  "  cried  Jemima.  "  You  !  what  a  turn  you 
have  given  me  !  who'd  have  thought  it !  come  along  in  Polly  ! 
How  well  you  do  look  to  be  sure  !  The  children  will  go  half 
wild  to  see  you,  Polly,  that  they  will." 

That  they  did,  if  one  might  judge  from  the  noise  they  made, 


PA  UVS  SECOND  DEPRIl  'A  TION.  69 

and  the  way  in  which  they  dashed  at  Polly  and  dragged  her  to 
a  low  chair  in  the  chimney  corner,  where  her  own  honest  apple 
face  became  immediately  the  centre  of  a  bunch  of  smallei 
pippins,  all  laying  their  rosy  cheeks  close  to  it,  and  all  evi- 
dently the  growth  of  the  same  tree.  As  to  Polly,  she  was  full 
as  noisy  and  vehement  as  the  children  ;  and  it  was  not  until 
she  was  quite  out  of  breath,  and  her  hair  was  hanging  all  about 
her  flushed  face  and  her  new  christening  attire  was  very  much 
dishevelled,  that  any  pause  took  place  in  the  confusion.  Even 
then,  the  smallest  Toodle  but  one  remained  in  her  lap,  holding 
on  tight  with  both  arms  round  her  neck  ;  while  the  smallest 
Toodle  but  two  mounted  on  the  back  of  the  chair,  and  made 
desperate  efforts,  with  one  leg  in  the  air,  to  kiss  her  round  the 
corner, 

"  Look!  there's  a  pretty  little  lady  come  to  see  you,"  said 
Polly ;  "  and  see  how  quiet  she  is !  what  a  beautiful  little  lady, 
ain't  she?  " 

This  reference  to  Florence,  who  had  been  standing  by  the 
door  not  unobservant  of  what  passed,  directed  the  attention  of 
the  younger  branches  towards  her ;  and  had  likewise  the  happy 
effect  of  leading  to  the  formal  recognition  of  Miss  Nipper,  who 
was  not  quite  free  from  a  misgiving  that  she  had  been  already 
slighted. 

"  Oh  do  come  in  and  sit  down  a  minute,  Susan,  please," 
said  Polly.  "This  is  my  sister  Jemima,  this  is.  Jemima,  I 
don't  know  what  I  should  ever  do  with  myself,  if  it  wasn't  for 
Susan  Nipper ;  I  shouldn't  be  here  now  but  for  her." 

"  Oh  do  sit  down  Miss  Nipj^er,  if  you  please,"  quoth 
Jemima. 

Susan  took  the  extreme  corner  of  a  chair,  with  a  stately 
and  ceremonious  aspect. 

"  I  never  was  so  glad  to  see  anybody  in  all  my  life  ;  now 
really  I  never  was.  Miss  Nipper,"  said  Jemima. 

Susan  relaxing,  took  a  little  more  of  the  chair,  and  smiled 
graciously. 

"  Do  untie  your  bonnet-strings,  and  make  yourself  at  home, 
Miss  Nipper,  please,"  entreated  Jemima.  "  I  am  afraid  it's  a 
poorer  place  than  you're  used  to  ;  but  you'll  make  allowances, 
I'm  sure." 

The  black-eyed  was  so  softened  by  this  deferential  be- 
havior, that  she  caught  up  little  Miss  Toodle  who  was  running 
past,  and  took  her  to  Banbury  Cross  immediately. 

"  But  Where's  my  pretty  boy  ? "  said  Polly.  "  My  poof 
ff  1]qw  ?    I  cajjie  gll  thl^  way  to  §ee  him  in  his  new  clothes." 


^  DOMBE  Y  AND  SOJV. 

"  Ah  what  a  pity  !  "  cried  Temhna.  "  He'll  break  h'ls  heart, 
when  he  hears  his  mother  has  been  here.  He's  at  school, 
Polly." 

"  Gone  already  !  " 

"  Yes.  He  went  for  the  first  time  yesterday,  for  fear  hfl 
should  lose  any  learning.  But  it's  half-holiday,  Polly  :  if  you 
could  only  stop  'till  he  comes  home — you  and  Miss  Nipper, 
leastways,"  said  Jemima,  mindful  in  good  time  of  the  dignity 
of  the  black-eyed. 

"  And  how  does  he  look,  Jemima,  bless  him  t "  faltered 
Polly. 

"  Well,  really  he  don't  look  so  bad  as  you'd  suppose,"  re- 
turned Jemima. 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Polly,  with  emotion,  "  I  knew  his  legs  must  be 
too  short." 

"  His  legs  t's  short,"  returned  Jemima  ;  "  especially  behind  j 
but  they'll  get  longer,  Polly,  every  day." 

It  was  a  slow,  prospective  kind  of  consolation  ;  but  the 
cheerfulness  and  good  nature  with  which  it  was  administered, 
gave  it  a  value  it  did  not  intrinsically  possess.  After  a  mo- 
ment's silence,  Polly  asked,  in  a  more  sprightly  manner : 

"  And  Where's  P'ather,  Jemima  dear?  " — for  by  that  patri- 
archal appellation,  Mr.  Toodle  was  generally  known  in  the 
family. 

"  There  again  !  "  said  Jemima.  "  What  a  pity  !  Father 
took  his  dinner  with  him  tins  morning,  and  isn't  coming  home 
till  night.  But  he's  always  talking  of  you,  Polly,  and  telling  the 
children  about  you  ;  and  is  the  peaceablest,  patientest,  best 
temperedst  soul  in  the  world,  as  he  always  was  and  will  be  !  " 

"  Thankee,  Jemima,"  cried  the  simple  I'olly ;  delighted  by 
the  speech,  and  disappointed  by  the  absence. 

**  Oh  you  needn't  thank  me,  Polly,"  said  her  sister,  giving 
her  a  sound  kiss  upon  the  cheek,  and  then  dancing  little  Paul 
;cheerfully.  "  I  say  the  same  of  you  sometimes,  and  think  it 
too." 

In  spite  of  the  double  disappointment,  it  was  impossible  to 
regard  in. the  light  of  a  failure  a  visit  which  was  greeted  with 
such  a  reception  ;  so  the  sisters  talked  hopefully  about  family 
matters,  and  about  Biler,  and  about  all  his  brothers  and  sisters: 
while  the  black-eyed,  having  performed  several  journeys  to 
Banbury  Cross  and  back,  took  sharp  note  of  the  furniture,  the 
Dutch  clock,  the  cupboard,  the  castle  on  the  mantel-piece  with 
red  and  green  windows  in  it,  susceptible  of  illumination  by  a 
candle-end  >vithin  ^;  and  the  pair  of  small  black  velvet  kittens* 


f*A  VVS  SECOA'D  DEPRWA  TlO]\r.  ^ , 

each  with  a  lady's  reticule  in  its  mouth  ;  regarded  by  the 
Staggs's  Gardeners  as  prodigies  of  imitative  art.  The  conve^ 
sation  soon  becoming  general  lest  the  black-eyed  should  go  ofE 
at  score  and  turn  sarcastic,  that  young  lady  related  to  Jemima 
a  summary  of  everything  she  knew  concerning  Mr,  Dombey, 
his  prospects,  family,  pursuits,  and  character.  Also  an  exact 
inventory  of  her  personal  wardrobe,  and  some  account  of  her 
principal  relations  and  friends.  Having  relieved  her  mind  ol 
these  disclosures,  she  partook  of  shrimps  and  porter,  and 
evinced  a  disposition  to  swear  eternal  friendship. 

Little  Florence  herself  was  not  behindhand  in  improving 
the  occasion  :  for,  being  conducted  forth  by  the  young  Toodles 
to  inspect  some  toad-stools  and  other  curiosities  of  the  Gardens, 
she  entered  with  them,  heart  and  soul,  on  the  formation  of  a 
temporary  breakwater  across  a  small  green  pool  that  had  col- 
lected in  a  corner.  She  was  still  busily  engaged  in  that  labor, 
when  sought  and  found  by  Susan  ;  who,  such  was  her  sense  of 
duty,  even  under  the  humanizing  influence  of  shrimps,  delivered 
a  moral  address  to  her  (punctuated  with  tliumps)  on  her  degen- 
erate nature,  while  washing  her  face  and  hands  ;  and  predicted 
that  she  would  bring  the  gray  hairs  of  her  family  in  general, 
with  sorrow  to  the  grave.  After  some  delay,  occasioned  by  a 
pretty  long  confidential  interview  above  stairs  on  pecuniary 
subjects,  between  Polly  and  Jemima,  an  interchange  of  babies 
was  again  effected — for  Polly  had  all  this  time  retained  her 
own  child,  and  Jemima  little  Paul — and  the  visitors  took 
leave. 

But  first  the  young  Toodles,  victims  of  a  pious  fraud,  were 
deluded  into  repairing  in  a  body  to  a  chandler's  shop  in  the 
neighborhood,  for  the  ostensible  purpose  of  spending  a  penny  ; 
and  when  the  coast  was  quite  clear,  Polly  fled  :  Jemima  calling 
after  her  that  if  they  could  only  go  round  towards  the  City 
Road  on  their  way  back,  they  would  be  sure  to  meet  little  Biler 
coming  from  school. 

"  Do  you  think  that  we  might  make  time  to  go  a  little  round 
\n  that  direction,  Susan  ?  "  inquired  Polly,  when  they  halted  to 
take  breath. 

"  Why  not,  Mrs,  Richards  ?  "  returned  Susan. 

"  It's  getting  on  towards  our  dinner  time  you  know,"  said 
Polly. 

But  lunch  had  rendered  her  companion  more  than  indiffer- 
ent to  this  grave  consideration,  so  she  allowed  no  weight  to  it, 
and  they  resolved  to  go  "  a  little  round." 

Now.  it  happened  that  poor  Biler's  life  had  been,  since  year 


9* 


DOMBE  Y  AND  SOIsT. 


terday  moiTiing,  rendered  weary  by  the  costume  of  the  Chafitabje 
Grinders.  Tlie  youth  of  the  streets  could  not  endure  it.  No 
young  vagabond  could  be  brought  to  bear  its  contemplation 
for  a  moment,  without  throwing  himself  upon  the  unoffending 
wearer,  and  doing  him  a  mischief.  His  social  existence  had 
been  more  like  that  of  an  early  Christian,  tiian  an  innocenl 
child  of  the  nineteenth  century.  He  had  been  stoned  in  the 
streets.  He  had  been  overthrown  into  gutters  ;  bespattered 
with  mud  ;  violently  flattened  against  posts.  Entire  strangers 
to  his  person  had  lifted  his  yellow  cap  off  his  head  and  cast  it 
to  the  winds.  His  legs  had  not  only  undergone  verbal  criti- 
cisms and  revilings,  but  had  been  handled  and  pinched.  That 
very  morning,  he  had  received  a  perfectly  unsolicited  black 
eye  on  his  way  to  the  Grinders'  establishment,  and  had  been 
punished  for  it  by  the  master  :  a  superannuated  old  Grinder  of 
savage  disposition,  who  had  been  appointed  schoolmaster  be- 
cause he  didn't  know  anything,  and  wasn't  fit  for  anything, 
and  for  whose  cruel  cane  all  chubby  little  boys  had  a  perfect 
fascination. 

Thus  it  fell  out  that  Biler,  on  his  way  home,  sought  unfre- 
quented paths  ;  and  slunk  along  by  narrow  passages  and  back 
street,  to  avoid  his  tormentors.  Being  compelled  to  emerge 
into  the  main  road,  his  ill  fortune  brought  him  at  last  where  a 
small  party  of  boys,  headed  by  a  ferocious  young  butcher,  were 
lying  in  wait  for  any  means  of  pleasurable  excitement  that 
might  happen.  These,  finding  a  Charitable  Grinder  in  the 
midst  of  them — unaccountably  delivered  over,  as  it  were,  into 
their  hands — set  up  a  general  yell  and  rushed  upon  him. 

But  it  so  fell  out  likewise,  that,  at  the  same  time,  Polly 
looking  hopelessly  along  the  road  before  her,  after  a  good 
hour's  walk,  had  said  it  was  no  use  going  any  further,  when 
suddenly  she  saw  this  sight.  She  no  sooner  saw  it  than,  utter- 
ing a  hasty  exclamation,  and  giving  Master  Dombey  to  the 
black-eyed,  she  started  to  the  rescue  of  her  unhappy  little  son. 

Surprises,  like  misfortunes,  rarely  come  alone.  The  aston- 
ished Susan  Nipper  and  her  two  young  charges  were  rescued 
by  the  bystanders  from  under  the  very  wheels  of  a  passing 
carriage  before  they  knew  what  had  happened  ;  and  at  that 
moment  (it  was  market  day)  a  thundering  alarm  of  "  Mad 
Bull  "  was  raised. 

With  a  wild  confusion  before  her,  of  people  running  up  and 
down,  and  shouting,  and  wheels  running  over  them,  and  boys 
fighting,  and  mad  bulls  coming  up,  and  the  nurse  in  the  midst 
of  all  these  dangers  being  torn  lo  pieces,  Florence  screamed 


PA  UVS  SECOND  DEPRl  VA  TION.  73 

and  ran.  She  ran  till  she  was  exhausted,  urging  Susan  to  do 
the  same  ;  and  then,  stopping  and  wringing  her  hands  as  she 
remembered  they  had  left  the  other  nurse  behind,  found,  with 
a  sensation  of  terror  not  to  be  described,  that  she  was  quite 
alone. 

"  Susan  !  Susan  !  "  cried  Florence,  clapping  her  hands  in 
the  very  ecstasy  of  her  alarm.  "  Oh,  where  are  they  1  where 
are  they  !  " 

"Where  are  they?"  said  an  old  woman,  coming  hobbling 
across  as  fast  as  she  could  from  the  opposite  side  of  the  way, 
"  Why  did  you  run  away  from  'em  }  " 

"1  was  frightened,"  answered  Florence.  "I  didn't  know 
what  I  did.     I  thought  they  were  with  me.     Where  are  they  ? " 

The  old  woman  took  her  by  the  wrist,  and  said,  "  I'll  show 
you." 

She  was  a  very  ugly  old  woman,  with  red  rims  round  her 
eyes,  and  a  mouth  that  mumbled  and  chattered  of  itself  when 
she  was  not  speaking.  She  was  miserably  dressed,  and  carried 
some  skins  over  her  arm.  She  seemed  to  have  followed  Flor- 
ence some  little  way  at  all  events,  for  she  had  lost  her  breath  ; 
and  this  made  her  uglier  still,  as  she  stood  trying  to  regain  it : 
working  her  shrivelled  yellow  face  and  throat  into  all  sorts  of 
contortions. 

Florence  was  afraid  of  her,  and  looked,  hesitating,  up  the 
street,  of  which  she  had  almost  reached  the  bottom.  It  was  a 
solitary  place — more  a  back  road  than  a  street — and  there  was 
no  one  in  it  but  herself  and  the  old  woman. 

"  You  needn't  be  frightened  now,"  said  the  old  woman,  still 
holding  her  tight.     "  Come  along  with  me." 

"  I — I  don't  know  you.  What's  your  name  t  "  asked  Flor- 
ence. 

"  Mrs.  Brov/n,"  said  the  old  woman.     "  Good  Mrs.  Brown." 

"  Are  they  near  here  t "  asked  Florence,  beginning  to  be 
led  away. 

"Susan  an't  far  off,"  said  Good  Mrs.  Brown;  "and  the 
others  are  close  to  her." 

"  Is  anybody  hurt  ?  "  cried  Florence. 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it,"  said  Good  Mrs.  Brown, 

The  child  shed  tears  of  delight  on  hearing  this,  and  accom- 
panied the  old  woman  willingly  ;  though  she  could  not  help 
glancing  at  her  face  as  they  went  along — particularly  at  that 
industrious  mouth — and  wondering  whether  Bad  Mrs.  Brown, 
if  there  was  such  a  person,  was  at  all  like  her. 

They  had  not  gone  far,  but  had  gone  by  some  very  uncom- 


74  DOMPEY  A.^D  SON. 

fortable  places,  such  as  brick-fields  and  tile-yards,  when  the  old 
woman  turned  down  a  dirty  lane,  where  the  mud  lay  in  deep 
black  ruts  in  the  middle  of  the  road.  She  stopped  before  a 
shabby  little  house,  as  closely  shut  up  as  a  house  that  was  full 
of  cracks  and  crevices  could  be.  Opening  the  door  with  a  key 
phe  took  out  of  her  bonnet,  she  pushed  the  child  before  her 
'into  a  back  room,  where  there  was  a  great  heap  of  rags  of 
different  colors  lying  on  the  floor  ;  a  heap  of  bones,  and  a  heap 
of  sifted  dust  or  cinders  ;  but  there  was  no  furniture  at  all,  and 
the  walls  and  ceiling  were  quite  black. 

The  child  became  so  terrified  that  she  was  stricken  speech- 
less, and  looked  as  though  about  to  swoon. 

"  Now  don't  be  a  young  mule,"  said  Good  Mrs.  Brown, 
reviving  her  with  a  shake.  "  I'm  not  a  going  to  hurt  you.  Sit 
upon  the  rags." 

Florence  obeyed  her,  holding  out  her  folded  hands,  in  mute 
supplication. 

"  I'm  not  a  going  to  keep  you,  even,  above  an  hour,"  said 
Mrs.  Brown.     "  D'ye  understand  what  I  say  ?  " 

The  child  answered  with  great  difficulty,  "  Yes." 

"Then,"  said  Good  Mrs.  Brown,  taking  her  own  seat  on  the 
bones,  "  don't  vex  me.  If  you  don't,  I  tell  you  I  won't  hurt 
you.  But  if  you  do,  I'll  kill  you.  I  could  have  you  killed  at 
any  time — even  if  you  was  in  your  own  bed  at  home.  Now 
let's  know  who  you  are,  and  what  you  are,  and  all  about  it." 

The  old  woman's  threats  and  promises  ;  the  dread  of  giving 
her  offence  ;  and  the  halDit,  unusual  to  a  child,  but  almost 
natural  to  Florence  now,  of  being  quiet,  and  repressing  what 
she  felt,  and  feared,  and  hoped  ;  enabled  her  to  do  this  bidding 
and  to  tell  her  little  history,  or  what  she  knew  of  it.  Mrs. 
Brown  listened  attentively,  until  she  had  finished. 

"  So  your  name's  Dombey,  eh  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Brown. 

"Yes,  Ma'am." 

"  I  want  that  pretty  frock,  Miss  Dombey,"  said  (]ood  Mrs. 
Brown,  "  and  that  little  bonnet,  and  a  petticoat  or  two,  and 
anything  else  you  can  spare.     Come  !     Take  'em  off." 

Florence  obeyed,  as  fast  as  her  trembling  hands  would 
allow  ;  keeping,  all  the  while,  a  frightened  eye  on  Mrs.  Brown. 
When  she  had  divested  herself  of  all  the  articles  of  apparel 
mentioned  by  that  lady,  Mrs.  B.  examined  them  at  leisure,  and 
seemed  tolerably  well 'satisfied  with  their  quality  and  value. 

"  Humph  !  "  she  said,  running  her  eyes  over  the  child's 
slight  figure,  "  I  don't  sec  anything  else — except  the  shoes.  I 
must  have  the  shoes,  Miss  Dombey." 


J<'A  rjL'S  SECOND  DEPRlVA  TION:  -j  5 

Poor  little  Florence  took  them  off  with  equal  alacrity,  only 
too  glad  to  have  any  more  means  of  conciliation  about  her. 
The  old  woman  then  produced  some  wretched  substitutes  from 
the  bottom  of  the  heap  of  rags,  which  she  turned  up  for  that 
purpose ;  together  with  a  girl's  cloak,  quite  worn  out  and  very 
old  ;  and  the  crushed  remains  of  a  bonnet  that  had  probably 
been  picked  up  from  some  ditch  or  dunghill.  In  this  dainty 
raiment,  she  instructed  Florence  to  dress  herself  ;  and  as  such 
preparation  seemed  a  prelude  to  her  release,  the  child  complied 
with  increased  readiness,  if  possible. 

In  hurriedly  putting  on  the  bonnet,  if  that  may  be  called  a 
bonnet  which  was  more  like  a  pad  to  carry  loads  on,  she  caught 
it  in  her  hair  which  grew  luxuriantly,  and  could  not  immediately 
disentangle  it.  Good  Mrs.  Brown  whipped  out  a  large  pair  of 
scissors,  and  fell  into  an  unaccountable  state  of  excitement. 

"  Why  couldn't  you  let  me  be,"  said  Mrs.  Brown,  "  when  I 
was  contented.     You  little  fool !  " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  don't  know  what  I  have  done," 
panted  Florence.     "  I  couldn't  help  it." 

"  Couldn't  help  it  I  "  cried  Mrs.  Brown.  "  How  do  you  ex- 
pect I  can  help  it  ?  Why,  Lord  1  "  said  the  old  woman,  ruffling, 
her  curis  with  a  furious  pleasure,  "  anybody  but  me  would  have 
had  'em  off  first  of  all." 

Florence  was  so  relieved  to  find  that  it  was  only  her  hair 
and  not  her  head  which  Mrs.  Brown  coveted,  that  she  offered 
no  resistance  or  entreaty,  and  merely  raised  her  mild  eyes 
towards  the  face  of  that  good  soul. 

"  If  I  hadn't  once  had  a  gal  of  my  own — beyond  seas  now — 
that  was  proud  of  her  hair,"  said  Mrs.  Brown,  "  I'd  have  had 
every  lock  of  it.     She's  far  away,  she's  faraway  !  Oho  !  Oho  !  " 

Mrs.  Brown's  was  not  a  melodious  cry,  but,  accompanied 
with  a  wild  tossing  up  of  her  lean  arms,  it  was  full  of  passionate 
grief,  and  thrilled  to  the  heart  of  Florence,  whom  it  frightened 
'more  than  ever.  It  had  its  part,  perhaps,  in  saving  her  curis  : 
for  Mrs.  Brown,  after  hovering  about  her  with  the  scissors  for 
some  moments,  like  a  new  kind  of  butterfly,  bade  her  hide  them 
under  the  bonnet  and  let  no  trace  of  them  escape  to  tempt  her. 
Having  accomplished  this  victory  over  herself,  Mrs.  Brown 
resumed  her  seat  on  the  bones,  and  smoked  a  very  short  black 
pipe,  mowing  and  mumbling  all  the  time,  as  if  she  were  eating 
the  stem. 

When  the  pipe  was  smoked  out,  she  gave  the  child  a  rabbit- 
skin  to  carry,  that  she  might  appear  the  more  like  her  ordinary 
companion,  and  told  her  that  she  was  now  going  to  lead  her  to 


j6  DOMBEY  AXD  son: 

a  public  street  whence  she  could  inq-iire  her  way  to  her  frienck 
But  slie  cautioned  her,  with  threats  of  summary  and  deadly 
vengeance  in  case  of  disobedience,  not  to  talk  to  strangers^ 
nor  to  repair  to  her  own  home  (which  may  have  been  too  near 
for  Mrs.  Jirown's  convenience),  but  to  her  father's  ofifice  in  the 
City ;  also  to  wait  at  the  street  corner  where  slie  would  be  left, 
until  the  clock  struck  three.  These  directions  Mrs.  Brown 
enforced  with  assurances  that  there  would  be  potent  eyes  and 
ears  in  her  employment  cognizant  of  all  she  did  ;  and  these 
directions  Florence  promised  faithfully  and  earnestly  to  observe. 

At  length,  Mrs.  Brown,  issuing  forth,  conducted  her  changed 
and  ragged  little  friend  through  a  labyrinth  of  narrow  streets 
and  lanes  and  alleys,  which  emerged,  after  a  long  time,  upon  a 
stable  yard,  with  a  gateway  at  the  end,  whence  the  roar  of  a 
great  thoroughfare  made  itself  audible.  Pointing  out  this  gate- 
way, and  informing  Florence  that  when  the  clocks  struck  three 
she  was  to  go  to  the  left,  Mrs.  Brown,  after  making  a  parting 
grasp  at  her  hair  which  seemed  involuntary  and  quite  beyond 
her  own  control,  told  her  she  knew  what  to  do,  and  bade  her  go 
and  do  it :  remembering  that  she  was  watched. 

With  a  lighter  heart,  but  still  sore  afraid,  Florence  felt  her- 
self released,  and  tripped  off  to  the  corner.  When  she  reached 
it,  she  looked  back  and  saw^  the  head  of  Good  Mrs.  Brown  peep- 
ing out  of  the  low  wooden  passage,  where  she  had  issued  her 
parting  injunctions ;  likewise  the  fist  of  Good  Mrs.  Brov/n 
shaking  towards  her.  But  though  she  often  looked  back  after- 
wards— every  minute,  at  least,  in  her  nervous  recollection  of  the 
old  woman — she  could  not  see  her  again. 

Florence  remained  there,  looking  at  the  bustle  in  the  street, 
and  more  and  more  bewildered  by  it ;  and  in  the  meanwhile  the 
clocks  appeared  to  have  made  up  their  minds  never  to  strike 
three  any  more.  At  last  the  steeples  rang  out  three  o'clock  ; 
there  was  one  close  by,  so  she  couldn't  be  mistaken  ;  and — after 
often  looking  over  her  shoulder,  and  often  going  a  little  way, 
and  as  often  coming  back  again,  lest  the  all-powerful  spies  of 
Mrs.  Brown  should  lake  offence — she  hurried  off,  as  fast  as  she 
could  in  jier  slipshod  shoes,  holding  the  rabbit  skin  tight  in  her 
hand. 

All  she  knew  of  her  father's  offices  was  that  they  belonged 
to  Dombcy  and  Son,  and  that  that  was  a  great  power  belong- 
ing to  tlic  City.  So  she  could  only  ask  the  way  to  Dombeyand 
Son's  in  tlie  City  ;  and  as  she  generally  made  inquiry  of  cliil- 
dren — being  afraid  to  ask  grown  people — she  got  very  little 
satisfaction  indeed.     But  by  dint  of  asking  her  way  to  the  Citjf 


PAUL'S  SECOND  DEPklVATiON. 


77 


after  a  while,  and  dropping  the  rest  of  her  inquiry  for  the  pres- 
ent, she  really  did  advance,  by  slow  degrees,  towards  the  heart 
of  that  great  region  which  is  governed  by  the  terriljle  Lord 
Mayor. 

Tired  of  walking,  repulsed  and  pushed  about,  stunned  by 
the  noise  and  confusion,  anxious  for  her  brother  and  the  nurses, 
terrified  by  what  she  had  undergone,  and  the  prospect  of  en- 
countering her  angry  father  in  such  an  altered  state  ;  perplexed 
and  frightened  alike  by  what  had  passed,  and  what  was  pass- 
ing and  what  was  yet  before  her ;  Florence  went  upon  her 
weary  way  with  tearful  eyes,  and  once  or  twice  could  not  help 
stopping  to  ease  her  bursting  heart  by  crying  bitterly.  But  few 
people  noticed  her  at  those  times,  in  the  garb  she  wore ;  or  if 
they  did,  believed  that  she  was  tutored  to  excite  compassion, 
and  passed  on.  Florence,  too,  called  to  her  aid  all  the  firm- 
ness and  self-reliance  of  a  character  that  her  sad  experience 
had  prematurely  formed  and  tried  ;  and  keeping  the  end  she 
had  in  view,  steadily  before  her,  steadily  pursued  it. 

It  was  full  two  hours  later  in  the  afternoon  than  when  she 
had  started  on  this  strange  adventure,  when,  escaping  from  the 
clash  and  clangor  of  a  narrow  street  full  of  carts  and  wagons, 
she  peeped  into  a  kind  of  wharf  or  landing-place  upon  the 
river  side,  where  there  were  a  great  many  packages,  casks,  and 
boxes,  strewn  about ;  a  large  pair  of  wooden  scales  ;  and  a  lit- 
tle wooden  house  on  wheels,  outside  of  which,  looking  at  the 
neighboring  masts  and  boats,  a  stout  man  stood  whistling,  with 
his  pen  behind  his  ear,  and  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  as  if  his 
day's  work  were  nearly  done. 

"  Now  then  I  "  said  this  man,  happening  to  turn  round, 
"  We  haven't  got  anything  for  you,  little  girl.     Be  off !  " 

"  If  you  please,  is  this  the  City  ? "  asked  the  trembling 
daughter  of  the  Dombeys. 

"Ah!  It's  the  City.  You  know  that  well  enough,. I  dare 
say.     Be  ofif!     We  haven't  got  anything  for  you." 

"  I  don't  want  anything,  thank  you,"  was  the  timid  answer. 
"  Except  to  know  the  way  to  Dombey  and  Son's."' 

The  man  who  had  been  strolling  carelessly  towards  her, 
seemed  surprised  by  this  reply,  and  looking  attentively  in  her 
face  rejoined: 

"  Why,  what  can  you  want  with  Dombey  and  Son's  ?  " 

"  To  know  the  way  there,  if  you  please." 

The  man  looked  at  her  yet  more  curiously,  and  rubbed  the 
back  of  his  head  so  hard  in  his  wondermeut  that  he  knocked 
his  own  hat  o£f. 


jg  DOUPBY  AMD  50!^. 

"Joe  !  "  he  called  to  another  man — a  laborer — as  he  picked 
it  up  and  put  it  on  again. 

"Joe  it  is  !  "  said  Joe. 

"  Where's  that  young  spark  of  Dombey's  who's  been  watch- 
ing the  shipment  of  them  goods  ?  " 

"  Just  gone,  by  the  t'other  gate,"  said  Joe. 

"  Call  him  back  a  minute." 

Joe  ran  up  an  archway,  bawling  as  he  went,  and  very  soon 
returned  with  a  blithe-looking  boy. 

"  You're  Dombey's  jockey,  an't  you  ?  "  said  the  first  man. 

"  I'm  in  Dombey's  House,  Mr.  Clark,"  returned  the  boy. 

"  Look'ye  here,  then,"  said  Mr,  Clark. 

Obedient  to  the  indication  of  Mr.  Clark's  hand,  the  boy  ap- 
proached towards  Florence,  wondering  as  well  he  might,  what 
he  had  to  do  with  her.  But  she,  who  had  heard  what  passed, 
and  who,  besides  the  relief  of  so  suddenly  considering  herself 
safe  at  her  journey's  end,  felt  re-assured  beyond  all  measure  by 
his  lively  youthful  face  and  manner,  ran  eagerly  up  to  him, 
leaving  one  of  the  slipshod  shoes  upon  the  ground  and  caught 
his  hand  in  both  of  hers. 

"  I  am  lost,  if  you  please  !  "  said  Florence. 

"  Lost !  "  cried  the  boy. 

"  Yes,  I  was  lost  this  morning,  a  long  way  from  here — and  1 
have  had  my  clothes  taken  away,  since — and  1  am  not  dressed 
in  my  own  now — and  my  name  is  Florence  Dombey,  my  little 
brother's  only  sister — and,  oh  dear,  dear,  take  care  of  me,  il 
you  please  !  "  sobbed  Florence,  giving  full  vent  to  the  childish 
feelings  she  had  so  long  suppressed,  and  bursting  into  tears 
At  the  same  time  her  miserable  bonnet  falling  off,  her  hair  cauu 
tumbling  down  about  her  face  :  moving  to  speechless  admir: 
tion  and  commiseration,  young  Walter,  nephew  of  Soloni' 
Gills,  Ships'  Instrument-maker  in  general. 

Mr.  Clark  stood   rapt  in   amazement  ;  observing  under  ;  . 
breath,  /never  saw  such  a  start  on  this  wharf  before.     Waltt 
picked  up  the  shoe,  and  put  it  on  the  little  foot  as  the  Prince 
in  the  story  might  have  fitted  Cinderella's  slipper  on.     He  hung 
the  rabbit-skin  over  his  left  arm  ;  gave  the  right  to  Florence 
and  felt,  not  to  say  like  Ricliard  Whittington — that  is  a  tame 
comparison — but  like  Saint  Ceorge  of  Pjigland,  with  the  dragon 
lying  dead  before  him. 

"Don't  cry.  Miss  Dombey,"  said  Walter,  in  a  transport  of 
enthusiasm.  "  What  a  wonderful  thing  for  me  that  I  am  here 
You  are  as  safe  now  as  if  you  were  guarded  by  a  whole  boat's 
crew  of  picked  men  from  a  man-of-war.    Oh,  don't  cry." 


PA  t/l'S  SECOND  DEPkll^A  TloN.  )  y 

"  I  won't  cry  any  more,"  said  Florence.  "  I  am  only  cry- 
ing for  joy." 

"  Crying  for  joy  !"  thought  Walter,  "and  I'm  the  cause  of 
it  1  Come  along.  Miss  Dombey.  There's  the  other  shoe  off 
now  !     Take  mine,  Miss  Dombey." 

"  No,  no,  no,"  said  Florence,  checking  him  in  the  act  of 
impetuously  pulling  off  his  own.  "  These  do  better.  'I'hese 
do  very  well." 

"  Why,  to  be  sure,**  said  Walter,  glancing  at  her  foot, 
"  mine  are  a  mile  too  large.  What  am  I  thinking  about !  You 
never  could  walk  in  77iine  !  Come  along.  Miss  Dombey.  Let 
me  see  the  villain  who  dare  molest  you  now." 

So  Walter,  looking  immensely  fierce,  led  off  Florence,  look« 
ing  very  happy  ;  and  they  went  arm  in  arm  along  the  streets, 
perfectly  indifferent  to  any  astonishment  that  their  appearance 
might  or  did  excite  by  the  way. 

It  was  growing  dark  and  foggy,  and  beginning  to  rain  too ; 
but  they  cared  nothing  for  this:  being  both  wholly  absorbed  in 
the  late  adventures  of  Florence,  which  she  related  with  the  in- 
nocent good  faith  and  confidence  of  her  years,  while  Walter 
listened  as  if,  far  from  the  mud  and  grease  of  Thames  Street, 
they  were  rambling  alone  among  the  broad  leaves  and  tall  trees 
of  some  desert  island  in  the  tropics — as  he  very  likely  fancied, 
for  the  time,  they  were. 

"  Have  we  far  to  go  ?  "  asked  Florence  at  last,  lifting  up 
her  eyes  to  her  companion's  face. 

"  Ah  !  By  the  bye,"  said  Walter,  stopping,  "  let  me  see  ; 
where  are  we  ?  Oh !  I  know.  But  the  offices  are  shut  up  now, 
Miss  Dombey.  There's  nobody  there.  Mr.  Dombey  has  gone 
home  long  ago.  I  suppose  we  must  go  home  too  ?  or,  stay. 
Suppose  I  take  you  to  my  uncle's  where  I  live — it's  very  near 
here — and  go  to  your  house  in  a  coach  to  tell  them  you  are 
safe,  and  bring  you  back  some  clothes.     Won't  that  be  best .-'  " 

"  I  think  so,"  answered  Florence.  "Don't  you?  What 
do  you  thmk  ?  " 

As  they  stood  deliberating  in  the  street,  a  man  passed  them, 
who  glanced  quickly  at  Walter  as  he  went  by,  as  if  he  recognized 
him  ;  but  seeming  to  correct  that  first  impression,  he  passed 
on  without  stopping. 

"Why,  I  think  it's  Mr.  Carker,"  said  Walter.  "  Carker  in 
our  House.  Not  Carker  our  manager,  Miss  Dombey — the 
other  Carker ;  the  junior — Halloa !     Mr.  Carker !  " 

'*  Is  that  Walter  Gray  ?  "  said  the  other,  stopping  and  return- 
ing.    "I  couldn't  believe  it,  with  such  a  strange  companion,'' 


ga  DoMBE  y  AMD  soiyr. 

hjs,  he  stood  near  a  lamp,  listening  with  surprise  to  Walter 'i 
hurried  explanation,  he  presented  a  remarkable  contrast  to  the 
two  youthful  figures  arm-in-arm  before  him.  He  was  not  old, 
but  his  hair  was  white ;  his  body  was  bent,  or  bowed  as  if  by  the 
weight  of  some  great  trouble  :  and  there  were  deep  lines  in  his 
worn  and  melancholy  face.  The  fire  of  his  eyes,  the  expression 
of  iiis  features,  the  very  voice  in  which  he  spoke,  were  all 
subdued  and  quenched,  as  if  the  spirit  within  him  lay  in  ashes. 
He  was  respectably,  though  very  phiinly  dressed,  in  black  ; 
but  his  clothes,  moulded  to  the  general  character  of  his  figure, 
seemed  to  shrink  and  abase  themselves  upon  him,  and  to  join 
in  the  sorrowful  solicitation  wliich  the  whole  man  from  head  to 
foot  expressed,  to  be  left  unnoticed,  and  alone  in  his  humility. 

And  yet  his  interest  in  youth  and  hopefulness  was  not  ex- 
tinguished with  the  other  embers  of  his  soul,  for  he  watched  the 
boy's  earnest  countenance  as  he  spoke  with  unusual  sympathy, 
though  with  an  inexplicable  shov/  of  trouble  and  compassion, 
which  escaped  into  his  looks,  however  hard  he  strove  to  hold  it 
prisoner.  When  Walter,  in  conclusion,  put  to  him  the  question 
he  had  put  to  Florence,  he  still  stood  glancing  at  him  with  the 
same  expression,  as  if  he  read  some  fate  upon  his  face,  mourn- 
fully at  variance  with  its  present  briglitness. 

"  What  do  you  advise,  Mr.  Carker }  "  said  Walter,  smiling. 
"  You  always  give  me  good  ad\ice,  you  know,  wlien  you  do 
speak  to  me.     That's  not  often,  though." 

"  I  think  your  own  idea  is  the  best,"  he  answered  :  looking 
from  Florence  to  Walter,  and  back  again. 

"  Mr.  Carker,"  said  Walter,  brightening  with  a  generous 
thought,  "  Come  !  Here's  a  chance  for  you.  Go  you  to  Mr. 
Dombey's,  and  be  the  messenger  of  good  news.  It  may  do  you 
some  good,  Sir.     I'll  remain  at  jiome.     You  shall  go." 

"  I !  "  returned  the  other. 

"Yes.     Wliy  not,  Mr.  Carker?"  said  the  boy. 

He  merely  sliook  him  by  the  hand  in  answer ;  he  seemed 
In  a  manner  asliamed  and  afraid  even  to  do  that  ;  and  bidding' 
him  good-night,  and  advising  him  to  make  haste,  turned  away. 

'  Come,  Miss  J)oml)ey,"  said  Waller,  looking  after  him  as 
they  turned  away  also,  ''  we'll  go  to  my  uncle's  as  quick  as  we 
can.  Did  you  ever  liear  Mr.  Dombey  speak  of  Mr.  Carker  the 
junior,  Miss  Florence  ?  " 

"  No,"  returned  the  cliild,  mildly,  "  I  don't  often  hear  papa 
speak." 

"  Ah  !  true  I  more  shame  for  him,"  thought  Walter.  Aftei 
a  minute's  pause,  during  which  he  had  been  looking  down  upon 


PAUL" S  SECOND  DE/'i<rVATrON'.  g, 

the  gentle  patient  little  face  moving  on  at  his  side,  he  bestirred 
himself  with  his  accustomed  boyish  animation  and  restlessness 
to  change  the  snbject  ;  and  one  of  the  unfortunate  shoes  com- 
ing off  again  opportunely,  proposed  to  carry  Florence  to  his 
uncle's  in  his  arms.  Florence,  though  very  tired,  laughingly 
■declined  the  proposal,  lest  he  should  let  her  fall  ;  and  as  they 
were  already  near  the  wooden  midshipman,  and  as  Walter  went 
on  to  cite  various  precedents,  from  shipwrecks  and  other  moving 
accidents,  where  younger  boys  than  he  had  triumphantly 
rescued  and  carried  off  older  girls  than  Florence,  they  were 
still  in  full  conversation  about  it  when  they  arri\ed  at  the  in- 
strument-maker's door. 

"  Holloa,  uncle  Sol  !  "  cried  Walter,  bursting  into  the  shop, 
and  speaking  incoherently  and  out  of  breath,  from  that  time 
forth,  for  the  rest  of  the  evening.  *'  Here's  a  wonderful  ad- 
venture !  Here's  Mr.  Dombey's  daughter  lost  in  the  streets, 
and  robbed  of  her  clothes  by  an  old  witch  of  a  woman — found 
by  me — brought  home  to  our  parlor  to  rest — look  here  !  " 

"  Good  Heaven  !  "  said  uncle  Sol,  starting  back  against  his 
favorite  compass-case.     "  It  can't  be  !     Well,  I — " 

"No,  nor  anybody  else,"  said  Walter,  anticipating  the  rest. 
"  Nobody  would,  nobody  could,  you  know.  Here  !  just  help  me 
lift  the  little  sofa  near  the  fire,  will  you,  uncle  Sol — take  care  of 
the  plates — cut  some  dinner  for  her,  will  you  uncle — throw 
those  shoes  under  the  grate.  Miss  Florence — put  your  feet  on 
the  fender  to  dry — how  damp  they  are — here's  an  adventure, 
uncle,  eh  ? — God  bless  my  soul,  how  hot  I  am  !  " 

Solomon  Gills  was  quite  as  hot,  by  sympathy,  and  in  ex- 
cessive bewilderment.  He  patted  Florence's  head,  pressed  her 
to  eat,  pressed  her  to  drink,  rubbed  the  soles  of  her  feet  with 
his  pocket  handkerchief  heated  at  the  fire,  followed  his  loco- 
motive nephew  with  his  eyes,  and  ears,  and  had  no  clear  percep- 
tion of  anything  except  that  he  was  being  constantly  knocked 
against  and  tumbled  over  by  that  excited  young  gentleman, 
as  he  darted  about  the  room  attempting  to  accomplish  twenty 
things  at  once,  and  doing  nothing  at  all. 

"  Here,  wait  a  minute,  uncle,"  he  continued,  catching  up  a 
candle,  "  till  I  run  up  stairs,  and  get  another  jacket  on,  and 
then  ril  be  off.     I  say,  uncle,  isn't  this  an  adventure  .''  " 

"  My  dear  boy,"  said  Solomon,  who,  with  his  spectacles  on 
his  forehead  and  the  great  chronometer  in  his  pocket,  was 
incessantly  oscillating  between  Florence  on  tiie  sofa  and  his 
nephew  in  all  parts  of  the  parlor,  "  it's  the  most  extraor- 
dinary—  * 


Sz  DOMBE  Y  AND  SON 

"  No,  but  do,  uncle,  please — do,  Miss  Florence — dinner,  y  )u 
know,  uncle." 

"  Yes,  yes,  yes,"  cried  Solomon,  cutting  instantly  into  a  leg 
of  mutton,  as  if  he  were  catering  for  a  giant.  "  I'll  take  care  of 
her,  Wally  !  I  understand.  Pretty  dear  !  Famished,  of  course. 
You  go  and  get  ready.  Lord  bless  me !  Sir  Richard  Whit- 
tington  thrice  Lord  Mayor  of  London." 

Walter  was  not  very  long  in  mounting  to  his  lofty  garret 
and  descending  from  it,  but  in  the  meantime  Florence,  over- 
come by  fatigue,  had  sunk  into  a  doze  before  the  fire.  The 
short  interval  of  quiet,  though  only  a  few  minutes  in  duration, 
enabled  Solomon  Gills  so  far  to  collect  his  wits  as  to  make  some 
little  arrangements  for  her  comfort,  and  to  darken  the  room, 
and  to  screen  her  from  the  blaze.  Thus,  when  the  boy  returned, 
she  was  sleeping  peacefully. 

"  That's  capital !  "  he  whispered,  giving  Solomon  such  a 
hug  that  it  squeezed  a  new  expression  into  his  face.  "  Now 
I'm  off.  ril  just  take  a  crust  of  bread  with  me,  for  I'm  very 
hungry — and — don't  wake  her,  uncle  Sol." 

"  No,  no,"  said  Solomon.     "  Pretty  child." 

"  Pretty,  indeed  ! "  cried  Walter.  "  /  never  saw  such  a 
face,  uncle  Sol.     Now  I'm  off." 

"  That's  right,"  said  Solomon,  greatly  relieved. 

"  I  say,  uncle  Sol,"  cried  Walter,  putting  his  face  in  at  the 
door. 

"  Here  he  is  again,"  said  Solomon. 

"  How  does  she  look  now?  " 

"Quite  happy,"  said  Solomon. 

"That's  famous  !  now  I'm  off." 

"I  hope  you  are,"  said  Solomon  to  himself. 

"  I  say,  uncle  Sol,"  cried  Walter,  reappearing  at  the  door. 

"  Here  he  is  again  !  "  said  Solomon. 

"  We  met  Mr.  Carker  the  junior  in  the  street,  queerer  than 
ever.  He  bade  me  good-by,  but  came  behind  us  here — there's 
an  odd  thing  ! — for  when  we  reached  the  shop  door,  I  looked 
round, and  saw  him  going  quietly  away,  like  a  servant  who  had 
seen  me  home,  or  a  faithful  dog.  How  does  she  look  now, 
uncle  ? " 

"  Pretty  much  the  same  as  before,  Wally,"  replied  uncle 
Sol. 

"That's  right.     Now  I  a7n  off  !  " 

And  this  time  he  really  was  :  and  Solomon  Gills,  with  no 
appetite  for  dinner,  sat  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  fire,  watching 
Florence  in  her  slumber,  building  a  great  many  airy  castles  (5 


PAUL'S  SECOND  DEPRIVATION.  83 

the  most  fantastic  architecture  ;  and  looking,  in  the  dim  shade, 
and  in  the  close  vicinity  of  all  the  instruments,  like  a  magician 
disguised  in  a  Welsh  wig  and  a  suit  of  coffee  color,  who  held 
the  child  in  an  enchanted  sleep. 

In  the  meantime,  Walter  proceeded  towards  Mr.  Dombey's 
house  at  a  pace  seldom  achieved  by  a  hack  horse  from  the 
stand  ;  and  yet  with  his  head  out  of  window  every  two  or  three 
minutes,  in  impatient  remonstrance  with  the  driver.  Arriving 
at  his  journey's  end,  he  leaped  out,  and  breathlessly  announc- 
ing his  errand  to  the  servant,  followed  him  straight  into  the 
library,  where  there  was  a  great  confusion  of  tongues,  and 
where  Mr.  Dombey,  his  sister,  and  Miss  Tox,  Richards,  and 
Nipper,  were  all  congregated  together. 

"  Oh !  I  beg  your  pardon,  Sir,"  said  Walter,  rushing  up  to 
him,  "but  I'm  happy  to  say  it's  all  right,  Sir.  Miss  Dombey's 
found  ! " 

The  boy  with  his  open  face,  and  flowing  hair,  and  sparkling 
eyes,  panting  with  pleasure  and  excitement,  was  wonderfully 
opposed  to  Mr.  Dombey,  as  he  sat  confronting  him  in  his 
library  chair. 

"  I  told  you,  Louisa,  that  she  would  certainly  be  found," 
said  Mr.  Dombey,  looking  slightly  over  his  shoulder  at  that 
lady,  who  wept  in  company  with  Miss  Tox.  "  Let  the  servants 
know  that  no  further  steps  are  necessary.  This  boy  who 
brings  the  information,  is  young  Gray,  from  the  office.  How 
was  my  daughter  found,  Sir  ?  I  know  how  she  was  lost." 
Here  he  looked  majestically  at  Richards.  "  But  how  was  she 
found  ?     Who  found  her  ? " 

"Why,  I  believe  /found  Miss  Dombey,  Sir,"  said  Walter 
modestly ;  "  at  least  I  don't  know  that  I  can  claim  the  merit 
of  having  exactly  found  her,  Sir,  but  I  was  the  fortunate  instru- 
ment of " 

"What  do  you  mean,  Sir,"  interrupted  Mr.  Dombey,  re- 
garding the  boy's  evident  pride  and  pleasure  in  his  share  of 
the  transaction  with  an  instinctive  dislike,  "  by  not  having  ex- 
actly found  my  daughter,  and  by  being  a  fortunate  instrument  ? 
Be  plain  and  coherent,  if  you  please." 

It  was  quite  out  of  Walter's  power  to  be  coherent;  but  he 
rendered  himself  as  explanatory  as  he  could,  in  his  breathless 
state,  and  stated  why  he  had  come  alone. 

"You  hear  this,  girl  ?"  said  Mr.  Dombey  sternly  to  the 
black-eyed.  "  Take  what  is  necessary,  and  return  immediately 
with  this  young  man  to  fetch  Miss  Florence  home.  Gray,  you 
will  be  rewarded  to-morrow." 


g^  DOME EY  AND  SON'. 

"Oh  !  thank  you,  Sir,"  said  Walter.  "  You  are  very  kind 
I'm  sure  I  was  not  thinking  of  any  reward,  Sir," 

"  You  are  a  boy,"  said  Mr.  Donibey,  suddenly  and  almost 
fiercely ;  "  and  what  you  think  of,  or  affect  to  think  of,  is  of 
little  consequence.  You  have  done  well,  Sir.  Don't  undo  it. 
Louisa,  please  to  give  the  lad  some  wine." 

Mr.  Dombey's  glance  followed  Walter  Gay  with  sharp  dis- 
favor, as  he  left  the  room  under  the  pilotage  of  Mrs.  Chick ; 
and  it  may  be  that  his  mind's  eye  followed  him  with  no  greater 
rciish,  as  he  rode  back  to  his  uncle's  with  Miss  Susan  Nipper. 

There  they  found  that  Florence,  much  refreshed  by  sleep, 
had  dined,  and  gready  improved  the  acquaintance  of  Solomon 
Gills,  with  whom  she  was  on  terms  of  perfect  confidence  and 
ease.  The  black-eyed  (who  had  cried  so  much  that  she  might 
now  be  called  the  red-eyed,  and  who  was  very  silent  and 
depressed)  caught  her  in  her  arms  without  a  word  of  con- 
tradiction or  reproach,  and  made  a  very  hysterical  meeting  of 
it.  Then  converting  the  parlor,  for  the  nonce,  into  a  private 
tiring  room,  she  dressed  her,  with  great  care,  in  proper  clothes  ; 
and  presently  led  her  forth,  as  like  a  Dombey  as  her  natural 
disqualifications  admitted  of  her  being  made, 

"  Good-night ! "  said  Florence,  running  up  to  Solomon. 
**  You  have  been  very  good  to  me." 

Old  Sol  was  quite  delighted,  and  kissed  her  like  her  grand- 
father. 

"Good-night,  Walter  !     Good-by  !  "  said  Florence. 

"  Good-by  !  "  said  Walter,  giving  both  his  hands. 

"I'll  never  forget  you,"  pursued  Florence.  "  No  J  indeed 
I  never  will.     Good-by,  Walter  !  " 

In  the  innocence  of  her  grateful  heart,  the  child  lifted  up 
her  face  to  his.  Walter,  bending  down  his  own,  raised  it  again, 
all  red  and  burning;  and  looked  at  uncle  Sol,  quite  sheepishly. 

"  Where's  Walter  ?  "  "  Good-night,  Walter  !  "  "  Good-by. 
Walter  !  "  "  Shake  hands  once  more,  Walter !  "  This  was  still 
Florence's  cry,  after  she  was  shut  up  with  her  little  maid,  in 
the  coach.  And  when  the  coach  at  length  moved  off,  \^'alte^ 
on  the  door-step  gayly  returned  the  waving  of  her  handkerchief, 
while  the  wooden  midshipman  behind  him  seemed,  like  him- 
self, intent  upon  that  coach  alone,  excluding  all  the  other  pass- 
ing coaches  from  his  observation. 

In  good  time  Mr.  Dombey's  mansion  was  gained  again,  and 
again  there  was  a  noise  of  tongues  in  the  library.  Again,  too, 
the  coach  was  ordered  to  wait — "for  Mrs.  Richards,"  one  of 
Susan's  fellow-servants  ominously  whispered,  as  she  passed 
with  Florence, 


PA  UL  'S  SE  COND  DEPkl  I  'A  TION.  8  5 

The  entrance  of  the  lost  child  made  a  slight  sensation,  but 
not  much.  Mr.  Dombey,  who  had  never  found  her,  kissed  her 
once  upon  the  forehead,  and  cautioned  her  not  to  run  away 
again,  or  wander  anywhere  with  treacherous  attendants.  Mrs. 
ciiick  stopped  in  her  lamentations  on  the  corruption  of  human 
nature  even  when  beckoned  to  the  paths  of  virtue  by  a  Chari- 
table Grinder ;  and  received  her  with  a  welcome  something 
short  of  the  reception  due  to  none  but  perfect  Dombeys.  Miss 
Tox  regulated  her  feelings  by  the  models  before  her.  Richards, 
the  culprit  Richards,  alone  poured  out  her  heart  in  broken 
words  of  welcome,  and  bowed  herself  over  the  little  wandering 
head  as  if  she  really  loved  it. 

"  Ah,  Richard  ! ''  said  Mrs.  Chick,  with  a  sigh.  "  It  would 
have  been  much  more  satisfactory  to  those  who  wish  to  think 
well  of  their  fellow-creatures,  and  much  more  becoming  in  you, 
if  you  had  shown  some  proper  feeling,  in  time,  for  the  little 
child  that  is  now  going  to  be  prematurely  deprived  of  its 
natural  nourishment." 

"  Cut  off,"  said  Miss  Tox,  in  a  plaintive  whisper,  "  from  one 
common  fountain  ! " 

"  If  it  was  my  ungrateful  case,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  solemnly, 
"  and  I  had  your  reflections,  Richards,  I  should  feel  as  if  the 
Charitable  Grinders'  dress  would  blight  my  child,  and  the  edu- 
cation choke  him." 

For  the  matter  of  that — but  Mrs.  Chick  didn't  know  it — he  ■ 
had  been  pretty  well  blighted  by  the  dress  already  ;  and  as  to 
the  education,  even  its  retributive  effect  might  be  produced  inl 
time,  for  it  was  a  storm  of  sobs  and  blows. 

"  Louisa  !  "  said  Mr.  Dombey.  "It  is  not  necessary  to 
prolong  these  observations.  The  woman  is  discharged  and 
paid.  You  leave  this  house,  Richards,  for  taking  my  son — my 
son,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  emphatically  repeating  these  two 
words,  "  into  haunts  and  into  society  which  are  not  to  be 
thought  of  without  a  shudder.  As  to  the  accident  which  befell 
Miss  Florence  this  morning,  I  regard  that  as,  in  one  great 
sense,  a  happy  and  fortunate  circumstance  ;  inasmuch  as,  but 
for  that  occurrence,  I  never  could  have  known — and  from  your 
own  lips  too — of  what  you  had  been  guilty.  I  think,  Louisa, 
the  other  nurse,  the  young  person,"  here  Miss  Nipper  sobbed 
aloud,  "  being  so  much  younger,  and  necessarily  influenced  by 
Paul's  nurse,  may  remain.  Have  the  goodness  to  direct  that 
this  woman's  coach  is  paid  to — "  Mr.  Dombey  stopped  and 
winced —  "  to  Staggs's  Gardens." 

Polly  moved  towards  the  door  with  Florence  holding  to 


iS  tidMBEV  AND  SO}^. 

her  dress,  and  crying  to  her  in  the  most  pathetic  manner  not 
to  go  away.  It  was  a  dagger  in  the  haughty  father's  heart,  an 
arrow  in  his  brain,  to  see  how  the  flesh  and  blood  he  could  not 
disown,  clung  to  this  obscure  stranger,  and  he  sitting  by.  Not 
that  he  cared  to  whom  his  daughter  turned,  or  from  whom 
turned  away.  The  swift  sharp  agony  struck  through  him,  as 
he  thought  of  what  his  son  might  do. 

His  son  cried  lustily  that  night,  at  all  events.  Sooth  to  say, 
poor  Paul  had  better  reason  for  his  tears  than  sons  of  that  age 
often  have,  for  he  had  lost  his  second  mother — his  first,  so  far 
as  he  knew — by  a  stroke  as  sudden  as  that  natural  affliction 
which  had  darkened  the  beginning  of  his  life.  At  the  same 
blow,  his  sister  too,  who  cried  herself  to  sleep  so  mournfully, 
had  lost  as  good  and  true  a  friend.  But  that  is  quite  beside 
the  question-     Let  us  waste  no  words  about  it. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

A  EiRr'S-EYE  GLIMPSE  OF  MISS  TOX'S   DWELLING-PLACE  ;   ALSO  OP 
THE  STATE  OF  MISS  TOX's  AFFECTIONS. 

Miss  Tox  inhabited  a  dark  little  house  that  had  been 
squeezed,  at  some  remote  period  of  English  History,  into  a 
fashionable  neighborhood  at  the  west  end  of  the  town,  where  it 
stood  in  the  shade  like  a  poor  relation  of  the  great  street  round 
the  corner,  coldly  looked  down  upon  by  mighty  mansions.  It 
was  not  exactly  in  a  court,  and  it  was  not  exactly  in  a  yard  ;  but 
it  was  in  the  dullest  of  No-Thoroughfares,  rendered  anxious 
and  haggard  by  distant  double  knocks.  The  name  of  this  re- 
tirement, where  grass  grew  between  the  chinks  in  the  stone 
pavement,  was  Princess's  Place  ;  and  in  Princess's  Place  was 
Princess's  Chapel,  with  a  tinkling  bell,  where  sometimes  as 
many  as  five-and-twenty  people  attended  service  on  a  Sunday, 
The  Princess's  Arms  was  also  there,  and  much  resorted  to  by 
splendid  footmen,  A  sedan  chair  was  kept  inside  the  railing 
before  the  Princess's  Arms,  but  it  had  never  come  out  within 
the  memory  of  man  ;  and  on  fine  mornings,  the  top  of  every 
rail  (there  were  eight-and-forty,  as  Miss  Tox  had  often  counted) 
was  decorated  with  a  pewlcr-pot. 

There  was  another  private  house  besides  Miss  Tox's  in 


MISS  Tax's  DWELLING-PLACE.  87 

Princess's  Place  :  not  to  mention  an  immense  pair  of  gates, 
with  an  immense  pair  of  iron-headed  knockers  on  them,  which 
were  never  opened  by  any  chance,  and  were  supposed  to  con- 
Btitute  a  disused  entrance  to  somebody's  stables.  Indeed, 
there  was  a  smack  of  stabUng  in  the  air  of  I'rincess's  Place  ; 
and  M-oS  Tox's  bedroom  (which  was  at  the  back)  commanded 
a  vista  of  Mews,  where  hostlers,  at  whatever  sort  of  work  en- 
gaged, were  continually  accompanying  themselves  with  effer- 
vescent noises ;  and  where  tlie  most  domestic  and  confidential 
garments  of  coachmen  and  their  wives  and  families,  usually 
hung,  like  Macbeth's  banners,  on  the  outward  walls. 

At  this  other  private  house  in  Princess's  Place,  tenanted  by 
a  retired  butler  who  had  marri-ed  a  housekeeper,  apartments 
were  let  Furnished,  to  a  single  gentleman  :  to  wit,  a  wooden- 
featured,  blue-faced  Major,  with  his  eyes  starting  out  of  his 
head,  in  whom  Miss  Tox  recognized,  as  she  herself  expressed 
it,  "  something  so  truly  military  ; "  and  between  whom  and  her- 
self, an  occasional  interchange  of  newspapers  and  pamphlets, 
and  such  Platonic  dalliance,  was  effected  through  the  medium 
of  a  dark  servant  of  the  Major's,  who  Miss  Tox  was  quite  con- 
tent to  classify  as  a  "  native,"  without  connecting  him  with  any 
geographical  idea  whatever. 

Perhaps  there  never  was  a  smaller  entry  and  staircase,  than 
the  entry  and  staircase  of  Miss  Tox's  house.  Perhaps,  taken 
altogether,  from  top  to  bottom,  it  was  the  most  inconvenient 
little  house  in  England,  and  the  crookedest ;  but  then.  Miss 
Tox  said,  what  a  situation  !  There  was  very  little  daylight  to 
be  got  there  in  the  winter :  no  sun  at  the  best  of  times  :  air 
was  out  of  the  question,  and  traffic  was  walled  out.  Still  Miss 
Tox  said,  think  of  the  situation  !  So  said  the  blue-faced 
Major,  whose  eyes  were  starting  out  of  his  head  :  who  gloried 
in  Princess's  Place  :  and  who  delighted  to  turn  the  conversa- 
tion at  his  club,  whenever  he  could,  to  something  connected 
with  some  of  the  great  people  in  the  great  street  round  the 
corner,  that  he  might  have  the  satisfaction  of  saying  they  were 
his  neighbors. 

The  dingy  tenement  inhabited  by  Miss  Tox  was  her  own  •, 
having  been  devised  and  bequeathed  to  her  by  the  deceased 
owner  of  the  fishy  eye  in  the  locket,  of  whom  a  miniature  por- 
trait, with  a  powdered  head  and  a  pigtail,  balanced  the  kettle- 
holder  on  opposite  sides  of  the  parlor  fire-place.  The  greater 
part  of  the  furniture  was  of  the  powdered-head  and  pig-tail 
period  :  comprising  a  plate-warmer,  always  languishing  and 
sprawling  its  foiir  attenuated  bpw  le.^s  in  somebody's  way  ;  ^.nO 


03  VOM BEY  AND  SON. 

an  obsolete  harpsichord,  illuminated  round  the  maker's  name 
with  a  painted  garland  cf  sweet  peas. 

Although  Major  Bagstock  had  arrived  at  what  is  called  in 
polite  literature,  the  grand  meridian  of  lite,  and  was  proceeding 
on  his  journey  down-hill  with  hardly  any  throat,  and  a  very 
rigid  pair  of  jaw-bones,  and  long-flapped  elephantine  ears,  and 
his  eyes  and  complexion  in  the  stale  of  artificial  excitement 
already  mentioned,  he  was  mightily  proud  of  awakening  an  in- 
terest in  Miss  Tox,  and  tickled  his  vanity  with  the  fiction  that 
she  was  a  splendid  woman,  who  had  her  eye  on  him.  This  he 
had  several  times  hinted  at  the  club  :  in  connection  with  little 
jocularities,  of  which  old  Joe  Bagstock,  old  Joey  Bagstock,  old 
J.  Bagstock,  old  Josh  Bagstock,  or  so  forth,  was  the  perpetual 
theme  :  it  being,  as  it  were,  the  Major's  stronghold  and  donjon- 
keep  of  light  humor,  to  be  on  the  most  familiar  terms  with  his 
own  name. 

*' Joey  B.,  Sir,"  the  Major  would  say,  with  a  flourish  of  his 
walking-stick,  "  is  worth  a  dozen  of  you.  If  you  had  a  few 
more  of  the  Bagstock  breed  among  you,  Sir,  you'd  be  none 
the  worse  for  it.  Old  Joe,  Sir,  needn't  look  far  for  a  wife  even 
now,  if  he  was  on  the  "look-out ;  but  he's  hard-hearted,  Sir,  is 
Joe — he's  tough.  Sir,  tough,  and  de-vilish  sly  ! "  After  such  a 
declaration  wheezing  sounds  would  be  heard  ;  and  the  Major's 
blue  would  deepen  into  purple,  while  his  eyes  strained  and 
started  convulsively. 

Notwithstanding  his  very  liberal  laudation  of  himself,  how- 
ever, the  Major  was  selfish.  It  may  be  doubted  whether  there 
ever  was  a  more  entirely  selfish  person  at  heart ;  or  at  stomach 
is  perhaps  a  better  expression,  seeing  that  he  was  more  decid- 
edly endowed  with  that  latter  organ  than  with  the  former.  He 
had  no  idea  of  being  overlooked  or  slighted  by  anybody;  least 
of  all,  had  he  the  remotest  comprehension  of  being  overlooked 
and  slighted  by  Miss  Tox. 

And  yet.  Miss  Tox,  as  it  appeared,  forgot  him — gradually 
forgot  him.  She  began  to  forget  him  soon  after  her  discovery 
of  the  Toodle  family.  She  continued  to  forget  him  up  to  the 
time  of  the  christening.  She  went  on  forgetting  him  with 
compound  interest  after  that.  Something  or  somebody  had 
superseded  him  as  a  source  of  interest. 

"  Good-morning,  Ma'am,"  said  the  Major,  meeting  Miss  Tox 
in  Princess's  Place,  some  weeks  after  the  changes  chronicled 
in  the  last  chapter. 

"  Good-morning,  Sir,"  said  Miss  Tox  ;  verj'  coldly. 

"Joe    Bagstock,  Ma'am/'  c^bspned  the  Major,  with   hi? 


MISS  TOX'S  DVVELLIXG-PLACE.  8^ 

usual  gallantry,  "  has  not  had  the  happiness  of  bowing  to  you 
at  your  window,  for  a  considerable  period.  Joe  has  been  hardly 
used,  Ma'am.     His  sun  has  been  behind  a  cloud." 

Miss  Tox  incUned  her  head  ;  but  very  coldly  indeed. 

"  Joe's  luminary  has  been  out  of  town,  Ma'am,  perhaps," 
inquired  the  Major. 

"  I  ?  out  of  town  ?  oh  no,  I  have  not  been  out  of  town,"  said 
Miss  Tox.  "  I  have  been  much  engaged  lately.  My  time  is 
nearly  all  devoted  to  some  very  intimate  friends.  I  am  afraid 
I  have  none  to  spare,  even  now.      Good-morning,  Sir  !  " 

As  Miss  Tox,  with  her  most  fascinating  step  and  carriage, 
disappeared  from  Princess's,  the  PlaceMajor  stood  looking 
after  her  with  a  bluer  face  than  ever  :  muttering  and  growing 
some  not  at  all  complimentary  remarks. 

"  Why,  damme.  Sir, "  said  the  Major,  rolling  his  lobster  eyes 
round  and  round  Princess's  Place,  and  apostrophizing  its  fra- 
grant air,  "  six  months  ago,  the  woman  loved  the  ground  Josh 
Bagstock  walked  on.     What's  the  meaning  of  it  ?  " 

The  Major  decided,  after  some  consideration,  that  it  meant 
man-traps;  that  it  meant  plotting  and  snaring  ;  that  Miss  Tox 
was  digging  pitfalls.  "  But  you  won't  catch  Joe,  Ma'am,"  said 
the  Major.  "  He's  tough,  Ma'am,  tough,  is  J.  B.  Tough,  and 
de-vilish  sly !  "  over  which  reflection  he  clucked  for  the  rest 
of  the  day 

But  still,  when  that  day  and  many  other  days  were  gone  and 
past,  it  seemed  that  Miss  Tox  took  no  heed  whatever  of  the 
Major,  and  thought  nothing  at  all  about  him.  She  had  been 
wont,  once  upon  a  time,  to  look  out  at  one  of  her  little  dark 
windows  by  accident,  and  blushingly  return  the  Major's  greet- 
ing; but  now,  she  never  gave  the  Major  a  chance,  and  cared 
nothing  at  all  whether  he  looked  over  the  way  or  not.  Other 
changes  had  come  to  pass  too.  The  Major,  standing  in  the 
shade  of  his  own  apartment,  could  make  out  that  an  air  of 
greater  smartness  had  recently  come  over  Miss  Tox's  house  ; 
that  a  new  cage  with  gilded  wires  had  been  provided  for  the 
ancient  little  canary  bird ;  that  divers  ornaments,  cut  out  of 
colored  card-boards  and  paper,  seemed  to  decorate  the  chim- 
ney-piece and  tables  ;  that  a  planter  two  had  suddenly  sprang 
up  in  the  window;  that  Miss  Tox  occasionally  practised  on  the 
harpsicord,  whose  garland  of  sweet  peas  was  always  displayed 
ostentatiously,  crowned  with  the  Copenhagen  and  Bird  Waltzes 
in  a  Music  Book  of  Miss  Tox's  own  copying. 

Over  and  above  all  this,  Miss  Tox  had  long  been  dressed 
with  uncommon  care  and  elegance  in  slight  mourning.     But  this 


^  £>OAfB£y  AND  ^OA'. 

helped  the  Major  out  of  his  difiVculty  \  and  he  determined  witt> 
in  liimself  that  she  had  come  into  a  small  legacy,  and  grown 
proud. 

It  was  on  the  very  next  day  after  lie  had  eased  his  mind  by 
arriving  at  this  decision,  that  the  Major,  sitting  at  his  breakfast, 
saw  an  apparition  so  tremendous  and  wonderful  in  Miss  Tox's 
little  drawing-room,  that  he  remained  for  some  time  rooted  to 
his  chair  ;  then,  rushing  into  the  next  room,  returned  with  a 
double-barrelled  opera-glass,  through  which  he  surveyed  it  in- 
tently for  some  minutes. 

•"  It's  a  Baby,  Sir,"  said  the  Major,  shutting  up  the  glass 
again,  "  for  fifty  thousand  pounds  !  " 

The  Major  couldn't  forget  it.  He  couM  no  nothing  but 
whistle,  and  stare  to  that  extent,  that  his  eyes  compared  with 
what  they  now  became,  had  been  in  former  times  quite  cavern- 
ous and  sunken.  Day  after  day,  two,  three,  four  times  a  week, 
this  Baby  reappeared.  The  Major  continued  to  stare  and 
whistle.  To  all  other  intents  and  purposes  he  was  alone 
in  Princess's  Place.  Miss  Tox  had  ceased  to  mind  what  he  did. 
He  might  have  been  black  as  well  as  blue,  and  it  would  have 
been  of  no  consequence  to  her. 

The  perseverance  with  which  she  walked  out  of  Princess's 
Place  to  fetch  this  baby  and  its  nurse,  and  walked  back  with 
them,  and  walked  home  with  them  again,  and  continually 
mounted  guard  over  them  ;  and  the  perseverance  with  which 
she  nursed  it  herself,  and  fed  it,  and  played  with  it,  and  froze 
its  young  blood  with  airs  upon  the  harpsichord ;  was  extraordi- 
nary. At  about  this  same  period  too,  she  was  seized  with  a 
passion  for  looking  at  a  certain  bracelet ;  also  with  a  passion 
for  looking  at  the  moon,  of  which  she  would  take  long  observa- 
tions from  her  chamber  window.  But  whatever  she  looked  at  ; 
sun,  moon,  stars,  or  bracelets ;  she  looked  no  more  at  the 
Major.  And  the  Major  whistled,  and  stared,  and  wondered, 
and  dodged  about  his  room,  and  could  make  nothing  of  it. 

"You'll  quite  win  my  brother  Paul's  heart,  and  that's  the 
truth,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  one  day. 

Miss  Tox  turned  pale. 

"  He  grows  more  like  Paul  every  day,"  said  Mrs.  Chick. 

Miss  Tox  returned  no  other  reply  than  by  taking  the  little 
Paul  in  her  arms,  and  making  his  cockade  perfectly  flat  and 
limp  with  her  caresses. 

"  His  mother,  my  dear,"  said  Miss  Tox,  "  whose  acquaint- 
ance 1  was  to  have  made  through  you,  does  lie  at  all  resemble 
her  ? " 


PAtJi:S  FURTHER  PROGRESS.  ^ 

**  Not  at  all,"  returned  Louisa. 

"  She  was — she  was  pretty,  I  believe  ?  "  faltered  Miss  Tox, 

*'  Why,  poor  dear  Fanny  was  interesting,"  said  Mrs.  Chick, 
after  some  judicial  consideration.  "  Certainly  interesting,  Sha 
had  not  that  air  of  commanding  superiority  which  one  would 
semehow  expect,  almost  as  a  matter  of  course,  to  find  in  my 
brother's  wife  ;  nor  had  she  that  strength  and  vigor  of  mind 
which  such  a  man  requires." 

Miss  Tox  heaved  a  deep  sigh. 

"  But  she  was  pleasing  :  "  said  Mrs.  Chick  :  "  extremely  so. 
And  she  meant ! — oh,  dear,  how  well  poor  Fanny  meant !  " 

"  You  Angel  !  "  cried  Miss  Tox  to  little  Paul.  "  You  Pic- 
ture of  your  own  Papa  !  " 

If  the  Major  could  have  known  how  many  hopes  and  ven- 
tures, what  a  multitude  of  plans  and  speculations,  rested  on 
that  baby  head  ;  and  could  have  seen  them  hovering,  in  all 
their  heterogeneous  confusion  and  disorder,  round  the  puckered 
cap  of  the  unconscious  little  Paul  ;  he  might  have  stared  in- 
deed. Then  would  he  have  recognized,  among  the  crowd,  some 
few  ambitious  motes  and  beams  belonging  to  Miss  Tox  ;  then 
would  he  perhaps  have  understood  the  nature  of  that  lady's 
faltering  investment  in  the  Dombey  Firm. 

If  the  child  himself  could  have  awakened  in  the  night,  and 
seen,  gathered  about  his  cradle-curtains,  faint  reflections  of  the 
dreams  that  other  people  had  of  him,  they  might  have  scared 
him,  with  good  reason.  But  he  slumbered  on,  alike  unconscious 
of  the  kind  intentions  of  Miss  Tox,  the  wonder  of  the  Major,  the 
early  sorrows  of  his  sister,  and  the  stern  visions  of  his  father  ; 
and  innocent  that  any  spot  of  earth  contained  a  Dombey  or  a 
Son. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

Paul's  further  progress,  growth,  and  character. 

Beneath  the  watching  and  attentive  eyes  of  Time — so  far 
another  Major — Paul's  slumbers  gradually  changed.  More 
and  more  light  broke  in  upon  them  ;  distincter  and  distincter 
dreams  disturbed  them  ;  an  accumulating  crowd  of  objects  and 
impressions  swarmed  about  his  rest ;  and  so  he  passed  from 


92 


DOMOEV  AND  SON. 


babyhood  to  childhood,  and  became  a  talking,  walking,  wonder 
iag  Dombey. 

On  the  downfall  and  banishment  of  Richards,  the  nursery 
may  be  said  to  have  been  put  into  commission  :  as  a  Public 
Department  is  sometimes,  when  no  individual  Atlas  can  be 
found  to  support  it.  The  Commissioners  were,  of  course,  Mrs. 
Chick  and  Miss  Tox  :  who  devoted  themselves  to  their  duties 
with  such  astonishing  ardor  that  Major  iJagstock  had  every  day 
some  new  reminder  of  his  being  forsaken,  while  Mr.  Chick, 
bereft  of  domestic  supervision,  cast  himself  upon  the  gay  world, 
dined  at  clubs  and  coffee-houses,  smelt  of  smoke  on  three  dis- 
tinct occasions,  went  to  the  play  by  himself,  and  in  short, 
loosened  (as  Mrs.  Chick  once  told  him)  every  social  bond,  and 

moral  £bligation.  

~~  Yet,  in  spite~of  his~early  promise^alT  tTiis  vigilance  and  care 
could  not  make  little  Paul  a  thriving  boy.  Naturally  deUcate, 
perhaps,  he  pined  and  wasted  after  the  dismissal  of  his  nurse, 
and,  for  a  long  time,  seemed  but  to  wait  his  opportunity  of 
gh'ding  through  their  hands,  and  seeking  his  lost  mother.  This 
dangerous  ground  in  his  steeple-chase  towards  manhood  passed, 
he  still  found  it  very  rough  riding,  and  was  grievously  beset  by 
all  the  obstacles  in  his  course.  Every  tooth  was  a  break-neck 
fence,  and  every  pimple  in  the  measles  a  stone  wall  to  him. 
He  was  down  in  every  fit  of  the  hooping-cough,  and  rolled  upon 
and  crushed  by  a  whole  field  of  small  diseases,  that  came  troop- 
ing on  each  other's  heels  to  prevent  his  getting  up  again.  Some 
bird  of  prey  got  into  his  throat  instead  of  the  thrush  ;  and  the 
very  chickens  turning  ferocious — if  they  have  anything  to  do 
with  that  infant  malady  to  which  they  lend  their  name — worried 
him  like  tiger-^its^^ ~ -. 

Tlie  chill  of  Paul's  christening  had  struck  home,  perhaps  to 
some  sensitive  part  of  his  nature,  which  could  not  recover  itself 
in  the  cold  shade  of  his  father ;  but  he  was  an  unfortunate 
child  from  that  day.  Mrs.  Wickam  often  said  she  never  see  a 
dear  so  put  upon. 

Mrs.  Wickam  was  a  waiter's  wife — which  would  seem  equiv- 
alent to  being  any  other  man's  widow — whose  application  for 
an  engagement  in  Mr.  Dombey's  service  had  been  favorably  con* 
sidered,  on  account  of  the  apparent  impossibility  of  her  having 
any  followers,  or  any  one  to  follow  ;  and  who,  from  within  a 
day  or  two  of  Paul's  sharp  weaning,  had  been  engaged  as  his 
nurse  Mrs.  Wickam  was  a  meek  woman,  of  a  fair  comple.xion, 
with  her  eyebrows  always  elevated  and  her  head  alwavs  drooping ; 
who  was  always  ready  to  pity  herself,  or  lo  be  pitied,  or  to  pitjf 


PAUL'S  FURTHER  PROGRESS. 


n 


anybody  else  ;  and  who  had  a  surprising  natural  gift  of  view- 
ing all  subjects  in  an  utterly  forlorn  and  pitiable  light,  and 
bringing  dreadful  precedents  to  bear  upon  them,  and  deriving 
the  greatest  consolation  from  the  exercise  of  that  talent. 

It  is  hardly  necessary  to  observe,  that  no  touch  of  this 
quality  ever  reached  the  magnificent  knowledge  of  Mr.  Dombey. 
It  would  have  been  remarkable,  indeed,  if  any  had ;  when  no 
one  in  the  house — not  even  INIrs.  Chick  or  Miss  Tox — dared 
ever  whisper  to  him  that  there  had,  on  any  one  occasion,  been 
the  least  reason  for  uneasiness  in  reference  to  little  Paul.  He 
had  settled  within  himself,  that  the  child  must  necessarily  pass 
through  a  certain  routine  of  minor  maladies,  and  that  the  sooner 
he  did  so  the  better.  If  he  could  have  bought  him  off,  or  pro- 
vided a  substitute,  as  in  the  case  of  an  unlucky  drawing  for  the 
militia,  he  would  have  been  glad  to  do  so  on  liberal  terms.  But 
as  this  was  not  feasible,  he  merely  wondered  in  his  haughty 
manner,  now  and  then,  what  Nature  meant  by  it ;  and  com- 
forted himself  with  the  reflection  that  there  was  another  mile- 
stone passed  upon  the  road,  and  that  the  great  end,  of  the 
journey  lay  so  much  the  nearer.  For  the  feeling  uppermost  in 
his  mind,  now  and  constantly  intensifying,  and  increasing  in  it 
as  Paul  grew  older,  was  impatience.  Impatient  for  the  time  to 
come,  when  his  visions  of  their  united  consequence  and  gran- 
deur would  be  triumphantly  realized. 

Some  philosophers  tell  us  that  selfishness  is  at  the  root  of 
our  best  loves  and  affections.  Mr.  Dombey's  young  child  was, 
from  the  beginning,  so  distinctly  important  to  him  as  a  part  of 
his  own  greatness,  or  (which  is  the  same  thing)  of  the  great- 
ness of  Dombey  and  Son,  that  there  is  no  doubt  his  parental 
affection  might  have  been  easily  traced,  like  many  a  goodly 
superstructure  of  fair  fame,  to  a  very  low  foundation.  But  he 
loved  his  son  with  all  the  love  he  had.  If  there  were  a  warm 
place  in  his  frosty  heart,  his  son  occupied  it ;  if  its  very  hard 
surface  could  receive  any  impression  of  any  image,  the  image 
of  that  son  was  there ;  though  not  so  much  as  an  infant,  or  as 
a  boy,  but  as  a  grown  man — the  "  Son  "  of  the  Firm.  There- 
fore he  was  impatient  to  advance  into  the  future,  and  to  hurry 
over  the  intervening  passages  of  his  history.  Therefore  he 
had  little  or  no  anxiety  about  them,  in  spite  of  his  love  ;  feeling 
as  if  the  boy  had  a  charmed  life,  and  must  become  the  man 
with  whom  he  held  such  constant  communication  in  his 
thoughts,  and  for  whom  he  planned  and  projected,  as  for_an, 
existing  reality,  every  day. ___—— " 

T))ug  Paul  grew  to  b?  nearly  nve  years"  old.     He  was  a 


94 


DOMBEY  AXD  SON. 


pretty  little  fellow  ;  though  there  was  something  wan  and  wist- 
ful in  his  small  lace  that  gave  occasion  to  many  significant 
shakes  of  Mrs.  Wickam's  head,  and  many  long-drawn  inspira- 
tions c^  Mrs.  Wickam's  breath.  His  temper  gave  abundant 
promise  of  being  imperious  in  after-life  ;  and  he  had  as  hopeful 
an  apprehension  of  his  own  importance,  and  the  rightful  subser- 
vience of  all  other  things  and  persons  to  it,  as  heart  could  de- 
sire. He  was  childish  and  sportive  enough  at  times,  and  not 
of  a  sullen  disposition  ;  but  he  had  a  strange,  old-fashioned- 
thoughtful  way,  at  other  times,  of  sitting  brooding  in  his  minia- 
ture arm-chair,  when  he  looked  (and  talked)  like  one  of  those 
terrible  little  Beings  in  the  Fairy  tales,  who  at  a  hundred  and 
fifty  or  two  hundred  years  of  age,  fantastically  represent  the 
children  for  whom  they  have  been  substituted.  He  would  fre- 
quently be  stricken  with  this  precocious  mood  up  stairs  in  the 
nursery ;  and  would  sometimes  lapse  into  it  suddenly,  exclaim- 
ing that  he  was  tired  :  even  while  playing  with  Florence,  or 
driving  Miss  Tox  in  a  single  harness.  But  at  no  time  did  he 
fall  into  it  so  surely,  as  when,  his  little  chair  being  carried  down 
into  his  father's  room,  he  sat  there  with  him  after  dinner  by  the 
fire.  They  were  the  strangest  pair  at  such  a  time  that  ever 
firelight  shone  upon.  Mr.  Dombey  so  erect  and  solemn, 
gazing  at  the  blaze  ;  his  little  image,  Avith  an  old,  old,  face,  peer- 
ing into  the  red  perspective  with  the  fixed  and  rapt  attention  of 
a  sage.  Mr,  Dombey  entertaining  complicated  worldly  schemes 
and  plans  ;  the  little  image  entertaining  Heaven  knows  what 
wild  fancies,  half-formed  thoughts,  and  wandering  speculations. 
Mr.  Dombey  stiff  with  starch  and  arrogance  ;  the  little  image 
by  inheritance,  and  in  unconscious  imitation.  The  two  so  very 
much  alike,  and  yet  so  monstrously  contrasted. 

On  one  of  these  occasions,  when  they  had  both  been  per- 
fectly quiet  for  a  long  time,  and  Mr.  Dombey  only  knew  that 
the  ciiild  was  awake  by  occasionally  glancing  at  his  eye,  where 
the  bright  fire  was  sparkling  like  a  jewel,  little  Paul  broke 
silence  thus  : 

"  Papa  !  what's  money  ?  " 

The  abrupt  question  had  such  immediate  reference  to  the 
subject  of  Mr.  IJombey's  thoughts,  that  Mr.  Dombey  was  quite 
disconcerted. 

"  What  is  money,  Paul  ?  "  he  answered.     "  Money  ?  " 

*'  Yes,"  said  the  child,  laying  his  hands  upon  the  elbows  of 
his  little  chair,  and  turning  the  old  face  up  towards  Mr.  Dorn- 
bey's  ;   "  what  is  money  ?  " 

Mr,  PoiTibey  w.^^  in  a  difficulty.    He  would  have  liked  to  give 


PAUVS  FURTHER  PROGRESS. 


9S 


him  some  explanation  involving  the  terms  circulating-medium, 
currency,  depreciation  of  currency,  i)aper,  bullion,  rates  of  ex- 
change, value  of  precious  metals  in  ihe  market,  and  so  forth  j 
but  looking  down  at  the  little  chair,  and  seeing  what  a  long 
way  down  it  was,  he  answered  :  "  Gold,  and  silver,  and  copper. 
Guineas,  shillings,  half-pence.     You  know  what  they  are  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes,  I  know  what  they  are,"  said  Paul.  "  I  don't  mean 
that,  Papa.     I  mean  what's  money  after  all." 

Heaven  and  Earth,  how  old  his  face  was  as  he  turned  it  up 
again  towards  his  father's  ! 

"  What,  is  money  after  all !  "  said  Mr.  Dombey,  backing 
his  chair  a  little,  that  he  might  the  better  gaze  in  sheer  amaze- 
ment at  the  presumptuous  atom  that  propounded  such  an 
inquiry. 

"  I  mean.  Papa,  what  can  it  do  ? "  returned  Paul,  folding 
his  arms  (they  were  hardly  long  enough  to  fold),  and  looking 
at  the  fire,  and  up  at  him,  and  at  the  fire,  and  up  at  him  again. 

Mr.  Dombey  drew  his  chair  back  to  its  former  place,  and 
patted  him  on  the  head.  "  You'll  know  better  by  and  by,  my 
man,"  he  said.  "  Money,  Paul,  can  do  anything."  He  took 
hold  of  the  little  hand,  and  beat  it  softly  against  one  of  his 
own,  as  he  said  so. 

But  Paul  got  his  hand  free  as  soon  as  he  could  ;  and  rub- 
bing it  gently  to  and  fro  on  the  elbow  of  his  chair,  as  if  his  wit 
were  in  the  palm,  and  he  were  sharpening  it — and  looking  at 
the  fire  again,  as  though  the  fire  had  been  his  adviser  and 
prompter — repeated,  after  a  short  pause  : 

"  Anything,  Papa  "i  " 

"Yes.     Anything — almost,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"Anything  means  everything,  don't  it,  Papa.?"  asked  his 
son  :  not  observing,  or  possibly  not  understanding,  the  qual- 
ification. 

"  It  includes  it :  yes,"  said  Mr,  Dombey. 

"  Why  didn't  money  save  me  my  Mama  "i  "  returned  the 
child.     "  It  isn't  cruel,  is  it  ?  " 

"  Cruel !  "  said  Mr.  Dombey,  settling  hi^  neckcloth,  and 
seeming  to  resent  the  idea.  "  No.  A  good  thing  can't  be 
cruel." 

"  If  it's  a  good  thing,  and  can  do  anything,"  said  the  little 
fellow,  thoughtfully,  as  he  looked  back  at  the  fire,  "  I  wonder 
why  it  didn't  save  me  my  Mania."  - 

He  didn't  ask  the  question  of  his  father  this  time.  Per- 
haps he  had  seen,  with  a  child's  quickness,  that  it  had  already 
made  his  father  uncomfortable.    But  he  repeated  the  thou/jbt 


96  DOMBEV  AND  SOM 

aloud,  as  if  it  were  quite  an  old  one  to  him,  and  had  troubled 
him  very  mucli  ;  and  sat  with  his  chin  resting  on  his  hand^ 
still  cogitating  and  looking  for  an  explanation  in  the  fire. 

Mr.  Dombey  having  recovered  from  his  surprise,  not  to  say 
his  alarm  (for  it  was  the  very  first  occasion  on  which  the  child 
had  ever  broached  the  subject  of  his  mother  to  him,  though 
he  had  had  him  sitting  by  his  side,  in  this  same  manner,  even- 
ing after  evening),  expounded  to  him  how  that  money,  though 
a  very  potent  spirit,  never  to  be  disparaged  on  any  account 
whatever,  could  not  keep  people  alive  whose  time  was  come  to 
die ;  and  how  that  we  must  all  die,  unfortunately,  even  in  the 
City,  though  we  were  never  so  rich.  But  how  that  money 
caused  us  to  be  honored,  feared,  respected,  courted,  and  ad- 
mired, and  made  us  powerful  and  glorious  in  the  eyes  of  all 
men  ;  and  how  that  it  could,  very  often,  even  keep  off  death, 
for  a  long  time  together.  How,  for  example,  it  had  secured 
to  his  Mama  the  services  of  Mr.  Pilkins,  by  which  he,  Paul, 
had  often  profited  himself ,  likewise  of  the  great  Doctor  Par- 
ker Peps,  whom  he  had  never  known.  And  how  it  could  do 
all,  that  could  be  done.  This,  with  more  to  the  same  purpose, 
Mr.  Dombey  instilled  into  the  mind  of  his  son,  who  listened 
attentively,  and  seemed  to  understand  the  greater  part  of  what 
was  said  to  him. 

"  It  can't  make  me  strong  and  quite  well,  either,  Papa ; 
can  it  ?  "  asked  Paul,  after  a  short  silence ;  rubbing  his  tiny 
hands. 

"  Why,  you  are  strong  and  quite  well,"  returned  Mr.  Dom- 
bey.    "  Are  you  not  ?  " 

Oh  !  the  age  of  the  face  that  was  turned  up  again,  with  an 
expression,  half  of  melancholy,  half  of  slyness,  on  it ! 

"  You  are  as  strong  and  well  as  such  little  people  usually 
are  1     Eh  t  "  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  Florence  is  older  than  I  am,  but  I'm  not  as  strong  and 
well  as  Florence,  I  know,"  returned  the  child  ;  "but  I  believe 
that  when  Florence  was  as  little  as  me,  she  could  play  a  great 
deal  longer  at  a  time  without  tiring  herself.  I  am  so  tired 
sometimes,"  said  Little  Paul,  warming  his  hands,  and  looking 
in  between  the  bars  of  the  grate,  as  if  some  ghostly  puppet- 
show  were  performing  there,  "  and  my  bones  ache  so  (Wickam 
says  it's  my  bones),  that  I  don't  know  what  to  do." 

"  Ay !  But  that's  at  night,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  drawing 
his  own  chair  closer  to  his  son's,  and  laying  his  hand  gently 
on  his  back  ;  "  little  people  should  l)e  tired  at  night,  for  then 
«-hey  sleep  we"-" 


PA  ULS  FUR  ThER  PROGRESS,  gj 

^'Oh,  it's  not  at  night,  Papa,"  returned  the  child,  "it's  in 
the  day  ;  and  I  Ue  down  in  Florence's  lap,  and  she  sings  to 
me.     At  night  I  dream  about  such  cu-ri-ous  things  !  " 

And  he  went  on,  warming  his  hands  again,  and  thinking 
about  them,  like  an  old  man  or  a  young  goblin. 

Mr.  Dombey  was  so  astonished,  and  so  uncomfortable,  and 
so  perfectly  at  a  loss  how  to  pursue  the  conversation,  that  he 
could  only  sit  looking  at  his  son  by  the  light  of  the  fire,  with 
his  hand  resting  on  his  back,  as  if  it  were  detained  there  by 
some  magnetic  attraction.  Once  he  advanced  his  other  hand, 
and  turned  the  contemplative  face  towards  his  own  for  a  mo- 
ment- But  it  sought  the  lire  again  as  soon  as  he  released  it ; 
and  remained,  addressed  towards  the  flickering  blaze,  until  the 
nurse  appeared,  to  summon  him  to  bed. 

"  I  want  Florence  to  come  for  me,"  said  Paul. 

"  Won't  you  come  with  your  poor  Nurse  Wickam,  Master 
Paul  ?"  Inquired  that  attendant,  with  great  pathos. 

"  No,  I  won't,"  replied  Paul,  composing  himself  in  his  arm- 
chair again,  like  the  master  of  the  house. 

Invoking  a  blessing  upon  his  innocence,  Mrs.  Wickam 
withdrew,  and  presently  Florence  appeared  in  her  stead.  Tlie 
child  immediately  started  up  with  sudden  readiness  and  ani- 
mation, and  raised  towards  his  father  in  bidding  him  good- 
night, a  countenance  so  much  brighter,  so  much  younger,  and 
so  much  more  child-like  altogether,  that  Mr.  Dombey,  while  he 
felt  greatly  re-assured  by  the  change,  was  quite  amazed  at  it. 

After  they  had  left  the  room  together,  he  thought  he  heard 
a  soft  voice  singing  ;  and  remembering  that  Paul  had  said  his 
sister  sung  to  him,  he  had  the  curiosity  to  open  the  door  and 
listen,  and  look  after  them.  She  was  toiling  up  the  great, 
wide,  vacant  staircase,  with  him  in  her  arms ;  his  head  was 
lying  on  her  shoulder,  one  of  his  arms  thrown  negligently  round 
her  neck.  So  they  went,  toiling  up  ;  she  singing  all  the  way, 
and  Paul  sometimes  crooning  out  a  feeble  accompaniment. 
Mr.  Dombey  looked  after  them  until  they  reached  the  top  of 
the  staircase — not  without  halting  to  rest  by  the  way — and 
passed  out  of  his  sight ;  and  then  he  still  stood  gazing  up- 
wards, until  the  dull  rays  of  the  moon,  glimmering  in  a  melan- 
choly manner  through  the  dim  skylight,  sent  him  back  to  his 
own  room. 

Mrs.  Chick  and  Miss  Tox  were  convoked  in  council  at 
dinner  next  day;  and  when  the  cloth  was  removed,  Mr.  Dom- 
bey opened  the  proceedings  by  requiring  to  be  informed,  with- 


^g  DOAfHEY  AA'D  SOJ^. 

out  any  gloss  or  reservation,  whether  there  was  anything  ih% 
matter  with  Paul,  and  what  Mr.  Pilkins  said  about  him. 

'*  For  the  child  is  hardly,"  said  Mr.  Donibey,  "  as  stout 
as  I  could  wish." 

"  With  your  usual  happy  discrimination,  my  dear  Paul," 
returned  Mrs.  Chick,  "  you  have  hit  the  point  at  once.  Our 
darling  is  not  altogether  as  stout  as  we  could  wish.  The  fact 
is,  that  his  mind  is  too  much  for  him.  His  soul  is  a  great  deal 
to  large  for  his  frame.  I  am  sure  the  way  in  which  that  dear 
child  talks  ; "  said  Mrs.  Chick,  shaking  her  head  ;  "  no  one 
would  believe.  His  expressions,  Lucretia,  only  yesterday  upon 
the  subject  of  Funerals  ! — " 

"  I  am  afraid,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  interrupting  her  testily, 
*'  that  some  of  those  persons  up  stairs  suggest  improper  subjects 
to  the  child.  He  was  speaking  to  me  last  night  about  his — • 
about  his  Bones,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  laying  an  irritated  stress 
upon  the  word.  "  What  on  earth  has  anybody  to  do  with  the 
— with  the — Bones  of  my  son  ?  He  is  not  a  living  skeleton,  I 
suppose. " 

"  Very  far  from  it,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  with  unspeakable 
expression. 

"  I  hope  so,"  returned  her  brother.  "  Funerals  again  !  who 
talks  to  the  child  of  funerals  1  We  are  not  undertakers,  or 
mutes,  or  grave-diggers,  I  believe." 

"  Very  far  from  it,"  interposed  Mrs.  Chick,  with  the  same 
profound  expression  as  before. 

"Then  who  puts  such  things  into  his  head  ?"  said  Mr. 
Dombey.  "  Really  I  was  quite  dismayed  and  shocked  last 
night.     Who  puts  such  things  into  his  head,  Louisa  ?  " 

"My  dear  Paul,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  after  a  jnoment's  silence, 
"  it  is  of  no  use  inquiring.  I  do  not  think,  I  will  tell  you 
candidly,  that  Wickam  is  a  person  of  very  cheerful  spirit,  or 
what  one  would  call  a — " 

"  A  daughter  of  Momus,"  Miss  Tox  softly  suggested. 

*' Exactly  so,"  said  Mrs.  Chick;  "but  she  is  exceedingly 
attentive  and  useful,  and  not  at  all  presumptuous  ;  indeed  I 
never  saw  a  more  biddable  woman.  If  the  dear  child,"  pur- 
sued Mrs.  Chick,  in  the  tone  of  one  who  was  summing  up  what 
had  been  previously  quite  agreed  upon,  instead  of  saying  it  all 
for  the  first  time,  "  is  a  little  weakened  by  that  last  attack,  and 
is  not  in  quite  such  vigorous  health  as  we  could  wish  ;  and  if 
he  has  some  temporary  weakness  in  his  system,  and  does  occa- 
sionally seem  about  to  lose,  for  the  moment,  the  use  of  his— r" 

Mrs.   Chick  was   afraid  to  say  limbs,  after  Mr,  Dombey'a 


PAUL'S  PUkTllEk  I'kOCkJ-SS. 


99 


recent  objection  to  bones,  and  therefore  waited  for  a  sugges- 
tion from  Miss  Tox,  who,  true  to  her  office,  hazarded  "  mem- 
bers." 

"  Members  !  "  repeated  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  I  think  the  medical  gentleman  mentioned  legs  this  morn- 
ing, my  dear  Louisa,  did  he  not,"  said  Miss  Tox. 

"  Why,  of  course  he  did,  my  love,"  retorted  Mrs.  Chick, 
mildly  reproachful.  "  How  can  you  ask  me  ?  You  heard  him. 
I  say,  if  our  dear  Paul  should  lose,  for  the  moment,  the  use  of  his 
legs,  these  are  casualties  common  to  many  children  at  his  time 
of  life,  and  not  to  be  prevented  by  any  care  or  caution.  The 
sooner  you  understand  that,  Paul,  and  admit  that,  the  better." 

"  Surely  you  must  know,  Louisa,"  observed  Mr.  Dombey, 
*'  that  I  don't  question  your  natural  devotion  to,  and  natural 
regard  for,  the  future  head  of  my  house.  Mr.  Pilkins  saw 
Paul  this  morning,  I  believe  ? "  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  Yes,  he  did,"  returned  his  sister.  "  Miss  Tox  and  myself 
were  present,  Miss  Tox  and  myself  are  always  present.  We 
make  a  point  of  it,  Mr  Pilkins  has  seen  him  for  some  days 
past,  and  a  very  clever  man  I  believe  him  to  be.  He  says  it 
is  nothing  to  speak  of;  which  I  can  confirm,  if  that  is  any  con- 
solation ;  but  he  recommended,  to-day,  sea-air.  Very  wisely, 
Paul,  I  feel  convinced." 

"  Sea-air,"  repeated  Mr.  Dombey,  looking  at  hissister. 

"  There  is  nothing  to  tie  ""'made  "lineasy  by,  m  tHatT^  saldf 
Mrs,  Chick.  "  My  George  and  Frederick  were  both  ordered 
sea-air,  when  they  were  about  his  age  ;  and  I  have  been  ordered 
it  myself  a  great  many  times.  I  quite  agree  with  you,  Paul, 
that  perhaps  topics  may  be  incautiously  mentioned  up  stairs 
before  him,  which  it  would  be  as  well  for  his  little  mind  not  to 
expatiate  upon  ;  but  I  really  don't  see  how  that  is  to  be  helped 
in  the  case  of  a  child  of  his  quickness.  If  he  w-ere  a  common 
child,  there  would  be  nothing  in  it,  I  must  say  I  think,  with 
Miss  Tox,  that  a  short  absence  from  this  house,  the  air  of 
Brighton,  and  the  bodily  and  mental  trainiftg  of  so  judicious  a 
person  as  Mrs.  Pipchin  for  instance — " 

"Who  is  Mrs.  Pipchin,  Louisa?"  asked  Mr.  Dombey; 
aghast  at  this  familiar  introduction  of  a  name  he  had  never 
heard  before. 

*'  Mrs.  Pipchin,  my  dear  Paul,"  returned  his  sister,  "  is  an 
elderly  lady — Miss  Tox  knows  her  whole  history — who  has  for 
some  time  devoted  all  the  energies  of  her  mind,  with  the 
greatest  success,  to  the  study  and  treatment  of  infancy,  and 
who  has  been  extremely  well  connected.     Her  husband  broke 


t  ^  t>OMBE  Y  Al^D  SON . 

his  heart  in — how  did  you  say  her  husband  broi<e  his  heart,  my 
dear?     I  forget  the  precise  circumstances." 

"  In  pumping  water  out  of  the  Peruvian  Mines,"  replied 
Miss  Tox. 

"  Not  being  a  Pumper  himself,  of  course,"  said  Mrs.  Chick, 
glancing  at  her  brother ;  and  it  really  did  seem  necessary  to 
offer  the  explanation,  for  Miss  Tox  had  spoken  of  him  as  if  he 
had  died  at  the  handle;  "  but  having  invested  money  in  the 
speculation,  which  failed.  I  believe  that  Mrs.  Pipchin's  man- 
agement of  children  is  quite  astonishing.  I  have  heard  it 
commended  in  private  circles  ever  since  I  was — dear  me — how 
high  !  "  Mrs,  Chick's  eye  wandered  about  the  book-case  near 
the  bust  of  Mr.  Pitt,  which  was  about  ten  feet  from  the 
ground. , ^ " 

"Perhaps  I  shouId~say  of  Mrs.  Pipchin,  my  dear  Sir," 
observed  Miss  Tox,  with  an  ingenious  blush,  "  having  been  so 
pointedly  referred  to,  that  the  encomium  which  has  been  passed 
upon  her  by  your  sweet  sister  is  well  merited.  Many  ladies 
and  gentlemen,  now  grown  up  to  be  interesting  members  of 
society,  have  been  indebted  to  her  care.  The  humble  individ- 
ual who  addresses  you  was  once  under  her  charge.  I  believe 
juvenile  nobility  itself  is  no  stranger  to  her  establishment." 

"  Do  I  understand  that  this  respectable  matron  keeps  an 
establishment,  Miss  Tox  ?  "  inquired  Mr.  Dombey,  condescend- 
ingly. 

"Why,  I  really  don't  know,"  rejoined  that  lady,  "whetiier 
I  am  justified  in  calling  it  so.  It  is  not  a  Preparatory  School 
by  any  means.  Should  I  express  my  meaning,"  said  Miss  Tox, 
with  peculiar  sweetness,  "  if  I  designated  it  an  infantine  Board- 
ing-House  of  a  very  select  description  ?  " 

"  On  an  exceedingly  limited  and  particular  scale,"  sug 
gested  Mrs.  Chick,  with  a  glance  at  her  brother. 

"  Oh  !  Exclusion  itself  !  "  said  Miss  Tox. 

There  was  something  in  this.  Mrs.  Pipchin's  husband 
having  broken  his  heart  of  the  Peruvian  mines  was  good.  It 
had  a  rich  sound.  Besides,  Mr.  Dombey  was  in  a  state  almost 
amounting  to  consternation  at  the  idea  of  Paul  remaining  where 
he  was  one  hour  after  his  removal  had  been  recommended  by 
the  medical  practitioner.  It  was  a  stoppage  and  delay  upon 
the  road  the  child  must  traverse,  slowly  at  the  best,  before  the 
goal  was  reached.  Their  recommendation  of  Mrs.  PipcJ.ii  had 
great  weight  with  him  ;  for  he  knew  that  they  were  jealou-i  of 
any  interference  with  their  charge,  and  he  never  for  a  moment 
took  it  into  account  that  they  might  be  solicitous  to  divide  a 


PA  UVS  FUR THER  PROGRESS.  \ o  i 

responsibility,  of  which  he  had,  as  shown  just  now,  his  own 
established  views.  Broke  his  heart  of  the  Peruvian  mines, 
mused  Mr.  Dombey.     Well,  a  very  respectable  way  of  doing  it. 

"  Supposing  we  should  decide,  on  to-morrow's  inquiries,  tc 
send  Paul  down  to  Brighton  to  this  lady,  who  would  go  with 
him  ?  "  inquired  Mr.  Dombey,  after  some  reflection. 

"  I  don't  think  you  could  send  the  child  anywhere  at  pres- 
ent without  Florence,  my  dear  Paul,"  returned  his  sister,  hes- 
itating. "  It's  quite  an  infatuation  with  him.  He's  very  young, 
you  know,  and  has  his  fancies." 

Mr.  Dombey  turned  his  head  away,  and  going  slowly  to  the 
bookcase,  and  unlocking  it,  brought  back  a  book  to  read. 

"  Anybody  else,  Louisa?  "  he  said,  without  looking  up,  and 
turning  over  the  leaves. 

"  Wickam,  of  course.  Wickam  would  be  quite  sufficient, 
I  should  say,"  returned  his  sister.  "  Paul  being  in  such  hands 
as  Mrs.  Pipchin's,  you  could  hardly  send  anybody  who  would 
be  a  further  check  upon  her.  You  would  go  down  yourself 
once  a  week  at  least,  of  course." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Mr.  Dombey;  and  he  sat  looking  at  one 
page  for  an  hour  afterwards,  without  reading  one  word. 

This  celebrated  Mrs.  Pipchin  was  a  marvellous,  ill-favored, 
ill-conditioned  old  lady,  of  a  stooping  figure,  with  a  mottled 
face,  like  bad  marble,  a  hook  nose,  and  a  hard  gray  eye,  that 
looked  as  if  it  might  have  been  hammered  at  on  an  anvil  without 
sustaining  any  injury.  Forty  years  at  least  had  elapsed  since 
the  Peruvian  mines  had  been  the  death  of  Mr.  Pipchin  ;  but  his 
relict  still  wore  black  bombazine,  of  such  a  lustreless,  deep, 
dead,  sombre  shade,  that  gas  itself  couldn't  light  her  up  after 
dark,  and  her  presence  was  a  quencher  to  any  number  of 
candles.  She  was  generally  spoken  of  as  "  a  great  manager  " 
of  children  ;  and  the  secret  of  her  management  was,  to  give 
them  everything  that  they  didn't  like,  and  nothing  that  they  did 
— which  was  found  to  sweeten  their  dispositions  very  much. 
She  was  such  a  bitter  old  lady,  that  one  was  tempted  to  believe 
there  had  been  some  mistake  in  the  application  of  the  Peruvian 
machinery,  and  that  all  her  waters  of  gladness  and  milk  of 
human  kindness,  had  been  pumped  out  dry,  instead  of  the  mines. 

The  Castle  of  this  ogress  and  child-queller  was  In  a  steep 
by-street  at  Brighton  ;  where  the  soil  was  more  than  usually 
chalky,  flinty,  and  sterile,  and  the  houses  were  more  than 
usually  brittle  and  thin  ;  where  the  small  front-gardens  had  the 
unaccountable  property  of  producing  nothing  but  marigolds, 
whatever  was  ^sowo  in  them  )  and  wJiere  ?^najl3  were  constanUy 


102  DOMBEY  AND  SOM 

discovered  holding  on  to  the  street  doors,  and  other  publk 
places  they  were  not  expected  to  ornament,  with  the  tenacity  ol 
cupping-glasses.  In  the  winter  time  the  air  couldn't  be  got 
out  of  the  Castle,  and  in  the  summer  time  it  couldn't  be  got  in. 
There  was  such  a  continual  reverberation  of  wind  in  it,  that  it 
sounded  like  a  great  shell,  which  the  inhabitants  were  obliged 
to  hold  to  their  ears  night  and  day,  whether  they  liked  it  or  no. 
It  was  not  naturally  a  fresh-smelling  house  ;  and  in  the  windovo 
of  the  front  parlor,  which  was  never  opened,  Mrs.  Pipchin  kept 
a  collection  of  plants  in  pots,  which  imparted  an  earthy  flavof 
of  their  own  to  the  establishment.  However  choice  examples 
of  their  kind,  too,  these  plants  were  of  a  kind  peculiarly  adapted 
to  the  embowerment  of  Mrs.  Pipchin.  There  were  half-a-dozen 
specimens  of  the  cactus,  writhing  round  bits  of  lath,  like  hairy 
serpents  ;  another  specimen  shooting  out  broad  claws,  like  a 
green  lobster  ;  several  creeping  vegetables,  possessed  of  sticky 
and  adhesive  leaves  ;  and  one  uncomfortable  flower-pot  hanging 
to  the  ceiling,  which  appeared  to  have  boiled  over,  and  tickling 
people  underneath  with  its  long  green  ends,  reminded  them  of 
spiders — in  which  Mrs.  Pipchin's  dwelling  was  uncommonly 
prolific,  though  perhaps  it  challenged  competition  still  more 
proudl}',  in  the  season,  in  point  of  earwigs. 

Mrs.  Pipchin's  scale  of  charges  being  high,  however,  to  all 
who  could  afford  to  pay,  and  Mrs.  Pipchin  very  seldom 
sweetening  the  equable  acidity  of  her  nature  in  favor  of  any- 
body, she  was  held  to  be  an  old  lady  of  remarkable  firmness, 
who  was  quite  scientific  in  her  knowledge  of  the  childish 
character.  On  this  reputation,  and  on  the  broken  heart  of  Mr. 
Pipchin,  she  had  contrived,  taking  one  year  with  another,  to 
eke  out  a  tolerable  sufficient  living  since  her  husband's  demise. 
Within  three  days  after  Mrs.  Chick's  first  allusion  to  her,  this 
excellent  old  lady  had  the  satisfaction  of  anticipating  a  hand- 
some addition  to  her  current  receipts,  from  the  pocket  of  Mr. 
1  )ombey  ;  and  of  receiving  Florence  and  her  little  brother  Paul, 
as  inmates  of  the  Castle. 

Mrs.  Chick  and  Miss  Tox,  who  had  brought  them  down  on 
the  previous  night  (which  they  all  passed  at  an  Hotel),  had  just 
driven  away  from  the  door,  on  their  journey  home  again  ;  and 
Mrs.  Pipchin,  with  her  back  to  the  fire,  stood,  reviewing  the 
new-comers,  like  an  old  soldier.  Mrs.  Pipchin's  middle-aged 
niece,  her  good-natured  and  devoted  slave,  but  possessing  a 
gaunt  and  iron-bound  aspect,  and  much  afflicted  with  boils  on 
her  nose,  was  di\esling  Master  Pitlierstone  of  the  clean  collar 
h^  had  worn  o!i  parade,     Miss  Pankey,  the  only  other  JiU)e 


PA  UV^  FL'K  TilER  PROG kESS.  t Oj 

boarder  at  present,  had  that  moment  been  walked  off  to  the 
Castle  Dungeon  (an  empty  apartment  at  the  back,  devoted  to 
correctional  purposes),  for  having  sniffed  thrice,  in  the  presence 
of  visitors. 

"  Well,  Sir,"  said  Mrs.  Pipchin  to  Paul,  "  how  do  you  think 
you  shall  like  me  ?  " 

"  I  don't  think  I  shall  like  you  at  all,"  replied  Paul.  "  I 
want  to  go  away.     This  isn't  my  house." 

"  No.     It's  mine,"  retorted  Mrs.  Pipchin. 

"  It's  a  very  nasty  one,"  said  Paul. 

"  There's  a  worse  place  in  it  than  this  though,"  said  Mrs. 
Pipchin,  "  where  we  shut  up  our  bad  boys." 

"  Has  he  ever  been  in  it  ?  "  asked  Paul ;  pointing  out  Master 
Bitherstone. 

Mrs.  Pipchin  nodded  assent;  and  Paul  had  enough  to  do, 
for  the  rest  of  that  day,  in  surveying  Master  Bitherstone  from 
head  to  foot,  and  watching  all  the  workings  of  his  countenance, 
with  the  interest  attaching  to  a  boy  of  mysterious  and  terrible 
experiences. 

At  one  o'clock  there  was  a  dinner,  chiefly  of  the  farinaceous 
and  vegetable  kind,  when  Miss  Pankey  (a  mild  little  blue  eyed 
morsel  of  a  child,  who  was  shampoo'd  every  morning,   and 
seemed  in  danger  of  being  rubbed  away,  altogether)  was  led 
in  from  captivity  by  the  ogress  herself,  and  instructed  that  no- 
body who  sniffed  before  visitors  ever  went  to  HcAven.     When  ^    ., 
this  great  truth  had  been  thoroughly  impressed  upon  her,  she          ^vt^ 
was  regaled  with  rice  ;  and  subsequently  repeated  the  form  of          I  ^m-L^s^ 
grace  established  in  the  Castle,  in  which  there  was  a  special 
clause,  thanking  Mrs.  Pipchin  for  a  good  dinner.     Mrs.  Pip- 
chin's  niece,  Berinthia,  took  cold  pork.     Mrs.  Pipchin,  whose 
constitution  required  warm  nourishment,  made  a  special  repast 
of  mutton-chops,  which  were  brought  in  hot  and  hot,  between 
two  plates,  and  smelt  very  nice. 

As  it  rained  after  dinner,  and  they  couldn't  go  out  walking 
on  the  beach,  and  Mrs.  Pipchin's  constitution  required  rest 
after  chops,  they  went  away  with  Berry  (otherwise  Berinthia) 
to  the  Dungeon  ;  an  empty  room  looking  out  upon  a  chalk  wall 
and  a  water-butt,  and  made  ghastly  by  a  ragged  fireplace  with- 
out any  stove  in  it.  Enlivened  by  company,  however,  this  was 
the  best  place  after  all ;  for  Berry  played  with  them  there,  and 
seemed  to  enjoy  a  game  at  romps  as  much  as  they  did  ;  until 
Mrs.  Pipchin  knocking  angrily  at  the  wall,  like  the  Cock  Lane 
Ghost  revived,  they  left  off,  and  Berry  told  them  stories  in  a 
whisper  until  twilight. 


164 


DOM  BEY  A\'D  SOU. 


For  tea  there  was  plenty  of  milk  and  water,  and  bread  and 
butter,  with  a  little  black  tea-pot  for  Mrs.  Pipchin  and  Berry, 
and  buttered  toast  unlimited  for  Mrs.  Pipchin,  which  was 
brought  in,  hot  and  hot,  like  the  chops.  Though  Mrs.  Pipchin 
got  very  greasy,  outside,  over  this  dish,  it  didn't  seem  to  lubri- 
cate her  internally,  at  all  ;  for  she  was  as  fierce  as  ever  and  the 
hard  gray  eye  knew  no  softening. 

After  tea,  Ikrry  brought  out  a  little  work-bo.x,  with  the 
Royal  Pavilion  on  the  lid,  and  fell  to  working  busily  ;  while 
Mrs.  Pipchin,  having  put  on  her  spectacles  and  opened  a  great 
volume  bound  in  green  baize,  began  to  nod.  And  whenever 
Mrs.  Pipchin  caught  herself  falling  forward  into  the  fire,  and 
woke  up,  she  filliped  Master  Bitherstone  on  the  nose  for  nodding 
too. 

At  last  it  was  the  children's  bedtime,  and  after  prayers  they 
went  to  bed.  As  little  Miss  Pankey  was  afraid  of  sleeping 
alone  in  the  dark,  Mrs.  Pipchin  always  made  a  point  of  driving 
her  up  stairs  herself,  like  a  sheep  ;  and  it  was  cheerful  to  hear 
Miss  Pankey  moaning  long  afterwards,  in  the  least  eligible 
chamber,  and  Mrs.  Pipchin  now  and  then  going  in  to  shake 
her.  At  about  half-past  nine  o'clock  the  odor  of  a  warm  sweet- 
bread (Mrs.  Pipchin's  constitution  wouldn't  go  to  sleep  without 
sweet-bread)  diversified  the  prevailing  fragrance  of  the  house, 
which  Mrs.  VVickam  said,  was  "a  smell  of  building;"  and 
slumber  fell  upon  the  Castle  shortly  after. 

The  breakfast  next  morning  was  like  the  tea  over  night,  ex- 
cept that  Mrs.  Pipchin  took  her  roll  instead  of  toast,  and 
seemed  a  little  more  irate  when  it  was  over.  Master  Bither- 
stone read  aloud  to  the  rest  a  pedigree  from  Genesis  (judiciously 
selected  by  Mrs.  Pipchin),  getting  over  the  names  with  the  ease 
and  clearness  of  a  person  tumbling  up  the  treadmill.  That 
done,  Miss  Pankey  was  borne  away  to  be  shampoo'd ;  and 
Master  liitherstone  to  have  something  else  done  to  him  with 
salt  water,  from  which  he  always  returned  very  blue  and  de- 
jected. Paul  and  l-'lorence  went  out  In  the  meantime  on  the 
beach  with  Wickam — who  was  constantly  in  tears  —  and  at 
about  noon  Mrs.  Pipchin  presided  over  some  Early  Readings. 
It  being  a  part  of  Mrs.  Pipchin's  system  not  to  encourage  a 
^child's  mind  to  develop  and  expand  itself  like  a  young  flower, 
but  to  open  it  by  force  like  an  oyster,  the  moral  of  these  lessons 
was  usually  of  a  violent  and  stunning  character;  the  hero — a 
naughty  boy — seldom,  in  the  mildest  catastrophe,  being  finished 
off  by  anything  less  than  a  lion,  or  a  bear. 

Such  was  life  at  Mrs.  Pipchin's.     On  Saturday  Mr.  Dombey 


PAUL'S  FURTHER  PROGRESS.  x6% 

came  down  ;  and  Florence  and  Paul  would  go  to  his  Hotel,  and 
have  tea.  They  passed  the  whole  of  Sunday  with  him,  and 
generally  rode  out  before  dinner  ,  and  on  these  occasions  Mr. 
Dombey  seemed  to  grow,  like  Falstaff's  assailants,  and  instead 
of  being  one  man  in  buckram,  to  become  a  dozen.  Sunday 
evening  was  the  most  melancholy  evening  in  the  week  ;  for 
Mrs.  Pipchin  always  made  a  point  of  being  particularly  cross 
on  Sunday  nights.  Miss  Pankey  was  generally  brought  back 
from  an  aunt's  at  Rottingdean,  in  deep  distress  ;  and  Master 
Bitherstone,  whose  relatives  were  all  in  India,  and  who  was  re- 
quired to  sit,  between  the  services,  in  an  erect  position  with  his 
head  against  the  parlor  wall,  neither  moving  hand  nor  foot, 
suffered  so  acutely  in  his  young  spirits  that  he  once  asked 
Florence,  on  a  Sunday  night,  if  she  could  give  him  any  idea  ol 
the  way  back  to  Bengal. 

But  it  was  generally  said  that  Mrs.  Pipchin  was  a  woman 
of  system  with  children  ;  and  no  doubt  she  was.  Certainly  the 
wild  ones  went  home  tame  enough,  after  sojourning  for  a  few 
months  beneath  her  hospitable  roof.  It  was  generally  said, 
too,  that  it  was  highly  creditable  of  Mrs.  Pipchin  to  have  de- 
voted herself  to  this  way  of  life,  and  to  have  made  such  a  sacri- 
fice of  her  feelings,  and  such  a  resolute  stand  against  her 
troubles,  when  Mr.  Pipchin  broke  his  heart  in  the  Peruvian 
mines.  _ 

At  this  exemplary  old  Mdy,  Ptiul  would  sil  starmg  in  his 
little  arm-chair  by  the  fire,  for  any  length  of  time.  He  never 
seemed  to  know  what  weariness  was,  when  he  was  looking 
fixedly  at  Mrs.  Pipchin.  He  was  not  fond  of  her  ;  he  was  not 
afraid  of  her  ;  but  in  those  old  old  moods  of  his,  she  seemed 
to  have  a  grotesque  attraction  for  him.  There  he  would  sit, 
looking  at  her,  and  warming  his  hands,  and  looking  at  her, 
until  he  sometimes  quite  confounded  Mrs.  Pipchin,  Ogress  as 
she  was.  Once  she  asked  him,  when  they  were  alone,  what  he 
was  thinking  about. 

"  You,"  said  Paul,  without  the  least  reserve. 

"And  what  are  you  thinking  about  me?"  asked  Mrs. 
Pipchin. 

"  I'm  thinking  how  old  you  must  be,"  said  Paul. 

"  You  mustn't  say  such  things  as  that,  young  gentleman," 
returned  the  dame.     "  That'll  never  do." 

"  Why  not  ?  "  asked  Paul. 

"  Because  it's  not  polite,"  sjiid  Mrs.  Pipchin,  snappishly, 

"  Not  polite  ?  "  said  Paul. 

"No." 


,o6  DOM  BEY  AXD  SOA^. 

"  It's  not  polite."  said  Paul,  innocently,  to  eat  all  the 
mutton-chops  and  toast,  Wickani  says," 

"  Wickain,"  retorted  Mrs.  Pipchin,  coloring,  "  is  a  wicked, 
impudent,  bold-faced  hussy." 

"  What's  that  ?  "  inquired  Paul. 

"  Never  you  mind,  Sir,"  retorted  Mrs.  Pipchin.  '' Remem 
ber  the  story  of  the  little  boy  that  was  gored  to  death  by  a  mad 
bull  for  asking  questions." 

"  If  the  bull  was  mad,"  said  Paul,  "  how  did  /le  know  that 
the  boy  had  asked  questions  .-'  Nobody  can  go  and  whisper 
secrets  to  a  mad  bull.     I  don't  believe  that  story." 

"  You  don't  believe  it,  Sir .? "  repeated  Mrs.  Pipchin, 
amazed. 

"  No,"  said  Paul. 

"  Not  if  it  should  happen  to  have  been  a  tame  bull,  you 
little  Infidel  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Pipchin. 

As  Paul  had  not  considered  the  subject  in  that  light,  and 
had  founded  his  conclusions  on  the  alleged  lunacy  of  the  bull, 
he  allowed  himself  to  be  put  down  for  the  present.  But  he  sat 
turning  it  over  in  his  mind,  with  such  an  obvious  intention  of 
fixing  Mrs.  Pipchin  presently,  that  even  that  hardy  old  lady 
deemed  it  prudent  to  retreat  until  he  should  have  forgotten  the 
subject. 

From  that  time,  Mrs.  Pipchin  appeared  to  have  something 
of  the  same  odd  kind  of  attraction  towards  Paul,  as  Paul  had 
towards  her.  She  would  make  him  move  his  chair  to  her  side 
of  the  fire,  instead  of  sitting  opposite  ;  and  there  he  would  re- 
main  in  a  nook  between  Airs.  Pipchin  and  the  fender,  with  all 
the  light  of  his  little  face  absorbed  into  the  black  bombazine 
drapery,  studying  every  line  and  wrinkle  of  her  countenance, 
and  peering  at  the  hard  gray  eye,  until  Mrs.  Pipchin  was  some- 
times fain  to  shut  it  on  pretence  of  dozing.  Mrs.  Pipchin  had 
an  old  black  cat,  who  generally  lay  coiled  upon  the  centre  foot 
of  the  fender,  purring  egotistically,  and  winking  at  the  tire  until 
the  contracted  pupils  of  his  eyes  were  like  two  notes  of  admiration. 
The  good  old  lady  might  have  been — not  to  record  it  disrespect- 
fully— a  witch,  and  Paul  and  the  cat  her  two  familiars,  as  they 
all  sat  by  the  fire  together.  It  would  have  been  quite  in 
keeping  with  the  appearance  of  the  party  if  they  had  all  sprung 
up  the  chimney  in  a  high  wind  one  night,  and  never  been  heard 
of  any  more. 

'Phis,  however,  never  came  to  pass.  The  cat,  and  Paul,  and 
Mrs.  Pipchin,  were  constantly  to  be  found  in  their  usual  places 
after  dark;  and  Paid,  eschewing  the  companionship  of  Master 


PAUL'S  FURTHER  PROGRESS.  J07 

Bitherstone,  went  on  studying  Mrs.  Pipchin,  and  the  cat,  and 
the  fire,  nigh':  after  night,  as  if  they  were  a  book  of  necromancy, 
in  three  volumes. 

Mrs.  Wickam  put  her  own  construction  on  Paul's  eccen- 
tricities ;  and  being  confirmed  in  her  low  spirits  by  a  perplexed 
view  of  chimneys  from  the  room  where  she  was  accustomed 
to  sit,  and  by  the  noise  of  the  wind,  and  by  the  general 
dulness  (gashliness  was  Mrs.  Wickam's  strong  expression) 
of  her  present  life,  deduced  the  most  dismal  reflections  from 
the  foregoing  premises.  It  was  a  part  of  Mrs.  Pipchin's  policy 
to  prevent  her  own  "young  hussy"  —  that  was  Mrs.  Pip- 
chin's  generic  name  for  female  servant  —  from  communica- 
ting with  Mrs.  Wickam :  to  which  end  she  devoted  much  of 
her  time  to  concealing  herself  behind  doors,  and  springing  out 
on  that  devoted  maiden,  whenever  she  made  an  approach 
towards  Mrs.  Wickam's  apartment.  But  Berry  was  free  to  hold 
what  converse  she  could  in  that  quarter  consistently  with  the 
discharge  of  the  multifarious  duties  at  which  she  toiled  inces- 
santly from  morning  to  night ;  and  to  Berry  Mrs.  Wickam  un- 
burdened her  mind. 

"  What  a  pretty  fellow  he  is  when  he's  asleep  !  "  said  Berry, 
stopping  to  look  at  Paul  in  bed,  one  night  when  she  took  up 
Mrs.  Wickam's  supper. 

"  Ah  !  "  sighed  Mrs.  Wickam.     "  He  need  be." 

"  Why,  he's  not  ugly  when  he's  awake,  observed  Berry. 

"  No,  Ma'am.  Oh,  no.  No  more  was  my  uncle's  Betsey 
Jane,"  said  Mrs.  Wickam. 

Berry  looked  as  if  she  would  like  to  trace  the  connection  of 
ideas  between  Paul  Dombeyand  Mrs.  Wickam's  uncle's  Betsey 
Jane. 

"  My  uncle's  wife,"  Mrs.  Wickam  went  on  to  say,  "  died 
just  like  his  mama.  My  uncle's  child  took  on  just  as  Master 
Paul  do.  My  uncle's  child  made  people's  blood  run  cold,  some- 
times, she  did  !  " 

"  How  }  "  asked  Berry. 

"  I  wouldn't  have  sat  up  all  night  alone  with  Betsey  Jane!  " 
said  Mrs.  Wickam,  "  not  if  you'd  have  put  Wickam  into  busi- 
ness next  morning  for  himself.  I  couldn't  have  done  it.  Miss 
Berry." 

Miss  Berry  naturally  asked  why  not  ?  But  Mrs.  Wickam, 
agreeably  to  the  usage  of  some  ladies  in  her  condition,  pursued 
her  own  branch  of  the  subject  without  any  compunction. 

"  Betsey  Jane,"  said  Mrs.  Wickam,  "  was  as  sweet  a  child 
as  I  could  wish  to  see.     I  couldn't  wish  to  see  a  sweeter. 


^o8  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

Everything  that  a  child  could  have  in  the  way  of  illnesses,  Bet- 
sey  Jane  had  come  through.     The  cramps  was   as   common  to 
her,'"'  said  Mrs.  Wickam,  '"  as  biles  is  to  yourself,  Miss  Berry. 
Miss  Berry  involuntarily  wrinkled  her  nose. 

"  But  Betsey  Jane,"  said  Mrs.  Wickam,  lowering  her  voice, 
and  looking  round  the  room,  and  towards  Paul  in  bed,  "  had 
been  minded,  in  her  cradle,  by  her  departed  mother.  I  couldn't 
say  how,  nor  I  couldn't  say  when,  nor  I  couldn't  say  whether 
the  dear  child  knew  it  or  not,  but  Betsey  Jane  had  been  watched 
by  her  mother,  Miss  Berry  1  You  may  say  nonsense  !  I  ain't 
offended.  Miss.  I  hope  you  may  be  able  to  think  in  your  own 
conscience  that  it  is  nonsense ;  you'll  find  your  spirits  all  the 
better  for  it  in  this — you'll  excuse  my  being  so  free — in  this 
burying-ground  of  a  place  ;  which  is  wearing  of  me  down. 
Master  Paul's  a  little  restless  in  his  sleep.  Pat  his  back,  if 
you  please." 

"  Of  course  you  think,"  said  Berry,  gently  doing  what  she 
was  asked,  "  that  he  has  been  nursed  by  his  mother,  too  ?  " 

"  Betsey  Jane,"  returned  Mrs.  Wickam  m  her  most  solemn 
tones,  "  was  put  upon  as  that  child  has  been  put  upon,  and 
changed  as  that  child  has  changed.  I  have  seen  her  sit,  often 
and  often,  think,  think,  thinking,  like  him.  I  have  seen  her 
look,  often  and  often,  old,  old,  old,  like  him.  I  have  heard  her, 
many  a  time,  talk  just  like  him.  I  consider  that  child  and 
Betsey  Jane  on  the  same  footing  entirely.  Miss  Berry." 

"  Isyour  uncle's  child  alive  ?  "  asked  Berry. 

"  Yes,  Miss,  she  is  alive,"  returned  Mrs.  Wickam,  with  an 
air  of  triumph,  for  it  was  evident  Miss  Berry  expected  the  re- 
verse ;  "  and  is  married  to  a  silver-chaser.  Oh  yes.  Miss,  She 
is  alive,"  said  Mrs.  Wickam,  laying  strong  stress  on  her  nomi- 
native case. 

It  being  clear  that  somebody  was  dead,  Mrs.  Pipchin's 
niece  inquired  who  it  was. 

"  I  wouldn't  wish  to  make  you  uneasy,"  returned  Mrs. 
Wickam,  pursuing  her  supper.     "  Don't  ask  me." 

This  was  the  surest  way  of  being  asked  again.  Miss  Berry 
repeated  her  question,  therefore  ;  and  after  some  resistance, 
and  reluctance,  Mrs.  Wickam  laid  down  her  knife,  and  again 
glancing  round  the  room  and  at  Paul  in  bed,  replied  : 

"  Slie  took  fancies  to  people  ;  whimsical  fancies,  some  of 
them  ;  others,  affections  that  one  might  expect  to  see — only 
stronger  than  common.     They  all  died." 

This  was  so  very  unexpected  and  awful  to  Mrs.  Pipchin's 
niece,  that  she  sat  upright  on  the  hard  edge  of  the  bedstead, 


PAUL'S  FUKTIIER  FROGRESS. 


f«9 


breathing  short,  and  surveying  her  informant  with  looks  of  un- 
disguised alarm. 

Mrs.  Wickam  shook  her  left  forefinger  stealthily  towards  the 
bed  where  Florence  lay  ;  then  turned  it  upside  down,  and  made 
several  emphatic  points  at  the  floor  ;  immediately  below  which 
was  the  parlor  in  which  Mrs.  Pipchin  habitually  consumed  the 
toast. 

"  Remember  my  words,  Miss  Berry,"  said  Mrs.  Wickam, 
"and  be  thankful  that  Master  Pa-il's  not  too  fond  of  you.  I 
am,  that  he's  not  too  fond  of  me,  I  assure  you  ;  though  there 
isn't  much  to  live  for — ^you'll  excuse  my  being  so  free — in  this 
jail  of  a  house  !  " 

Miss  Berry's  emotion  might  have  lead  to  her  patting  Paul 
too  hard  on  the  back,  or  might  have  produced  a  cessation  of 
that  soothing  monotony,  but  he  turned  in  his  bed  just  now,  and 
presently  awaking,  sat  up  in  it  with  his  hair  hot  and  wet  from 
the  effects  of  some  childish  dream,  and  asked  for  Florence. 

She  was  out  of  her  own  bed  at  the  first  sound  of  his  voice ; 
and  bending  over  his  pillow  immediately,  sang  him  to  sleep 
again.  Mrs.  Wickam  shaking  her  head,  and  letting  fall  sev- 
eral tears,  pointed  out  the  little  group  to  Berry,  and  turned  her 
eyes  up  to  the  ceiling. 

"  Good-night,  Miss  !  "  said  Wickam,  softly.  "  Good-night ! 
Your  aunt  is  an  old  lady,  Miss  Berry,  and  it's  what  you  must 
have  looked  for,  often." 

This  consolatory  farewell,  Mrs.  Wickam  accompanied  with 
a  look  of  heartfelt  anguish  ;  and  being  left  alone  with  the  two 
children  again,  and  becoming  conscious  that  the  wind  was 
blowing  mournfully,  she  indulged  in  melancholy — that  cheapest 
and  most  accessible  of  luxuries — until  she  was  overpowered  by 
slumber. 

Although  the  niece  of  Mrs.  Pipchin  did  not  expect  to  find 
that  exemplary  dragon  prostrate  on  the  hearth-rug  when  she 
went  down  stairs,  she  was  relieved  to  find  her  unusually  frac- 
tious and  severe,  and  with  every  present  appearance  of  intend- 
ing to  live  a  long  time  to  be  a  comfort  to  all  who  knew  her. 
Nor  had  she  any  symptoms  of  declining,  in  the  course  of  the 
ensuing  week,  when  the  constitutional  viands  still  continued  to 
disappear  in  regular  succession,  notwithstanding  that  Paul 
studied  her  as  attentively  as  ever,  and  occupied  his  usual  seat 
between  the  black  skirts  and  the  fender,  with  unwavering  con- 
stancy. 

But  as  Paul  himself  was  no  stronger  at  the  expiration  of 
that  time  than  he  had  been  on  his  first  arrival,  though  he  looked 


1 1  o  bOMBE  Y  ANV  SOM. 

much  healthier  in  the  face,  a  little  carriage  was  got  for  him,  itl 
which  he  could  lie  at  his  ease,  with  an  alphabet  and  other  ele- 
mentary works  of  reference,  and  be  wheeled  down  to  the  sea- 
side. Consistent  in  his  odd  tastes,  the  child  set  aside  a  ruddy- 
faced  lad  who  was  proposed  as  the  drawer  of  this  carriage,  and 
selected,  instead,  his  grandfather — a  weazen,  old,  crab-faced 
man,  in  a  suit  of  battered  oilskin,  who  had  got  tough  anc 
stringy  from  long  pickling  in  salt  water,  and  who  smelt  like  a 
weedy  sea-beach  when  the  tide  is  out. 

With  this  notable  attendant  to  pull  him  along,  and  Florence 
always  walking  by  his  side,  and  the  despondent  Wickam  bring- 
ing up  the  rear,  he  went  down  to  the  margin  of  the  ocean 
every  day  ;  and  there  he  would  sit  or  lie  in  his  carriage  for 
hours  together :  never  so  distressed  as  by  the  company  of 
children — Florence  alone  excepted,  always. 

"  Go  away,  if  you  please,"  he  would  say  to  any  child  who 
came  to  bear  him  company.  "  Thank  you,  but  I  don't  want 
you." 

Some  small  voice,  near  his  ear,  would  ask  him  how  he  was 
perhaps. 

"  I  am  very  well,  I  thank  you,"  he  would  answer.  "  But 
you  had  better  go  and  play,  if  you  please." 

Then  he  would  turn  his  head,  and  watch  the  child  away, 
and  say  to  Florence,  "We  don't  want  any  others,  do  we.? 
Kiss  me,  Floy." 

He  had  even  a  dislike,  at  such  times,  to  the  company  of 
Wickam,  and  was  well  pleased  when  she  strolled  away,  as  she 
generally  did,  to  pick  up  shells  and  acquaintances.  His  favor- 
ite spot  was  quite  a  lonely  one,  far  away  from  most  loungers ; 
and  with  Horence  sitting  by  his  side  at  work,  or  reading  to 
him,  or  talking  to  him,  and  the  wind  blowing  on  his  face,  and 
the  water  coming  up  among  the  wheels  of  his  bed,  he  wanted 
nothing  more. 

"  Floy,"  he  said  one  day,  "  where's  India,  where  that  boy's 
friends  live  ? " 

"  Oh,  it's  a  long,  long  distance  off,"  said  Florence,  raising 
her  eyes  from  her  work. 

"  Weeks  off  ?  "  asked  Paul. 

"  Yes,  dear.     Many  weeks'  journey,  night  and  day." 

"  If  you  were  in  India,  Floy,"  said  Paul,  after  being  silent 
for  a  minute,  "  I  should — what  is  it  that  Mama  did  ?     I  forget." 

"  Loved  me  1  "  answered  Florence. 

"  No,  no.  Don't  I  love  you  now,  Floy  ?  What  is  it  ? — Died 
If  you  were  in  India,  I  should  die,  Floy." 


THE  WOODEX  MrDsn!PMAN\  iti 

She  hurriedly  put  her  work  aside,  and  laid  her  head  down 
on  his  pillow,  caressing  him.  And  so  would  she,  she  said,  if  he 
were   there.       He    would  be  better  soon. 

"  Oh  !     I  am  a  great  deal  better  now !  "  he  answered.     "  I 
don't  mean  that.     I  mean  that  I  should  die  of  being  so  sorry_ 
a^<i.so_loneJy,  Floy!" =-— — """"' 

Another  time,  in  tlie  same  place,  Fe  fell  asleep,  and  slept 
quietly  for  a  long  time.  Awaking  suddenly,  he  listened,  started 
up,  and  sat  listening. 

Florence  asked  him  what  he  thought  he  heard. 

•'  I  want  to  know  what  it  says,"  he  answered,  looking  stead- 
ily in  hei  face.  "  The  sea,  Floj^,  what  is  it  that  it  keeps  ou 
saying  t " 

She  told  him  that  it  was  only  the  noise  of  the  rolling  waves. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  he  said.  "But  I  know  that  they  are  always 
saying  something.  Always  the  same  thing.  What  place  is 
over  there? "     He  rose  up,  looking  eagerly  at  the  horizon. 

She  told  him  that  there  was  another  country  opposite,  but 
he  said  he  didn't  mean  that :  he  meant  farther  away — farther 
away  ! 

Very  often  afterwards,  in  the  midst  of  their  talk,  he  would 
break  off,  to  try  to  understand  what  it  was  that  the  waves  were 
always  saying  ;  and  would  rise  up  in  his  couch  to  look  towards 
that  invisible  region,  far  away. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

IN   WHICH  THE   WOODEN   MIDSHIPMAN   GETS    INTO  TROUBLE. 

That  spice  of  romance  and  love  of  the  marvellous,  of 
which  there  was  a  pretty  strong  infusion  in  the  nature  of  young 
Walter  Gay,  and  which  the  guardianship  of  his  uncle,  old  Sol- 
omon Gills,  had  not  very  much  weakened  by  the  waters  of 
stern  practical  experience,  was  the  occasion  of  his  attaching  an 
uncommon  and  delightful  interest  to  the  adventure  of  Florence 
with  good  Mrs.  Brown.  He  pampered  and  cherished  it  in  his 
memory,  especially  that  part  of  it  with  which  he  had  been  as- 
sociated :  until  it  became  the  spoiled  child  of  his  fancy,  and 
took  its  own  way,  and  did  what  it  liked  with  it. 


The  recollection  of  those  incidents,  and  his  own  shate  iti 
them,  may  have  been  made  the  more  captivating,  perhaps,  by 
the  weekly  dreamings  of  old  Sol  and  Captain  Cuttle  on  Sun- 
days. Hardly  a  Sunday  passed,  without  mysterious  references 
being  made  by  one  or  other  of  those  worthy  chums  to  Richard 
Whittington  ;  and  the  latter  gentleman  had  even  gone  so  far 
as  to  purchase  a  ballad  of  considerable  antiquity,  that  had  long 
fluttered  among  many  others,  chiefly  expressive  of  maritime 
sentiments,  on  a  dead  wall  in  the  Commercial  Road  :  whi.  h 
poetical  performance  set  forth  the  courtship  and  nuptials  of  a 
promising  young  coal-whipper  with  a  certain  "  lovely  Peg,"  the 
accomplished  daughter  of  the  master  and  part-owner  of  a  New- 
castle collier.  In  this  stirring  legend.  Captain  Cuttle  descried 
a  profound  metaphysical  bearing  on  the  case  of  Walter  and 
Florence;  and  it  excited  him  so  much,  that  on  very  festive  oc- 
casions, as  birthdays  and  a  few  other  non-Dominical  holidays, 
he  would  roar  through  the  whole  song  in  the  little  back  parlor ; 
making  an  amazing  shake  on  the  word  Pe — e — eg,  with  which 
every  verse  concluded,  in  compliment  to  the  heroine  of  the 
piece. 

Rut  a  frank,  free-spirited,  open-hearted  boy,  is  not  much 
given  to  analyzing  the  nature  of  his  own  feelings,  however 
strong  their  hold  upon  him ;  and  Walter  would  have  found  it 
difflcult  to  decide  this  point.  He  had  a  great  affection  for  the 
wharf  where  he  had  encountered  Florence,  and  for  the  streets 
(albeit  not  enchanting  in  themselves)  by  which  they  had  come 
home.  The  shoes  that  had  so  often  tumbled  off  by  the  wa)-, 
he  preserved  in  his  own  room  ;  and,  sitting  in  the  little  back 
parlor  of  an  evening,  he  had  drawn  a  whole  gallery  of  fancy 
portraits  of  good  Mrs.  Brown.  It  may  be  that  he  became  a 
little  smarter  in  his  dress  after  that  memorable  occasion ;  and 
he  certainly  liked  in  his  leisure  time  to  walk  towards  that  quar- 
ter of  the  town  where  Mr.  Dombey's  house  was  situated,  on 
the  vague  chance  of  passing  little  Florence  in  the  street.  But 
the  sentiment  of  all  this  was  as  boyish  and  innocent  as  could 
be.  Florence  was  very  pretty,  and  it  is  pleasant  to  admire  a 
pretty  face.  Florence  was  defenceless  and  weak,  and  it  was  a 
proud  thought  that  he  had  been  able  to  render  her  any  protec- 
tion and  assistance.  Florence  was  the  most  grateful  little 
creature  in  the  world,  and  it  was  delightful  to  see  her  bright 
gratitude  beaming  in  her  face.  Florence  was  neglected  and 
coldly  looked  upon,  and  his  breast  was  full  of  youthful  interest 
for  the  slighted  child  in  her  dull,  stately  home. 

ThuB  it  came  about  that,  perhaps  some  half-a-dozen  limc» 


THE   WOODEN  MIDSHIPMAN 


fW 


in  the  course  of  the  year,  Walter  pulled  off  his  hat  to  Florence 
in  the  street,  and  Plorence  would  stop  to  shake  hands.  Mrs. 
Wickam  (who,  with  a  characteristic  alteration  of  his  name  in- 
variably spoke  of  him  as  '  Young  Graves  ')  was  so  well  used  to 
this,  knowing  the  story  of  their  acquaintance,  that  she  took  no 
heed  o£  it  at  all.  Miss  Nipper,  on  the  other  hand,  rather 
looked  out  for  these  occasions;  her  sensitive  young  heart 
being  secretly  propitiated  by  Walter's  good  looks,  and  inclin- 
ing to  the  belief  that  its  sentiments  were  responded  to. 

In  this  way,  Walter,  so  far  from  forgetting  or  losing  sight 
of  his  acquaintance  with  Florence,  only  remembered  it  better 
and  better.  As  to  its  adventurous  beginning,  and  all  those  little 
circumstances  which  gave  it  a  distinctive  character  and  relish, 
he  took  them  into  account,  more  as  a  pleasant  story  very  agree- 
able t(?  his  imagination,  and  not  to  be  dismissed  from  it,  than 
as  a  part  of  any  mater  of  fact  with  which  he  was  concerned. 
They  set  off  Florence  very  much,  to  his  fancy  ;  but  not  himself^ 
Sometimes  he  thought  (and  then  he  walked  very  fast)  what  a 
grand  thing  it  would  havv-  been  for  him  to  have  been  going  to 
sea  on  the  day  after  that  first  meeting,  and  to  have  gone,  and 
to  have  done  wonders  there,  and  to  have  stopped  away  a  long 
time,  and  to  have  come  back  an  Admiral  of  all  the  colors  ol 
the  dolphin,  or  at  least  a  Post-Captain  with  epaulettes  of  in- 
supportable brightness,  and  have  married  Florence  (then  a 
-beautiful  young  woman)  in  spite  of  Mr.  Dombey's  teeth,  cravat, 
and  watch-chain,  and  borne  her  away  to  the  blue  shores  of  some- 
where or  other,  triumphantly.  But  these  flights  of  fancy  seldom 
burnished  the  brass  plate  of  Dombey  and  Son's  Offices  into  a 
tablet  of  golden  hope,  or  shed  a  brilliant  lustre  on  their  dirt) 
skylights  :  and  when  the  Captain  and  Uncle  Sol  talked  about 
Richard  Whittington  and  masters'  daughters,  Walter  felt  that 
he  understood  his  true  position  at  Dombey  and  Son's,  much 
better  than  they  did. 

So  it  was  that  he  went  on  doing  what  he  had  to  do  from  day 
to-day,  in  a  cheerful,  pains-taking,  merry  spirit ;  and  saw  through 
the  sanguine  complexion  of  Uncle  Sol  and  Captain  Cuttle  ;  and 
yet  entertained  a  thousand  indistinct  and  visionary  fancies  of 
his  own,  to  which  theirs  were  work-a-day  probabilities.  Such 
was  his  condition  at  the  Pipchin  period,  when  he  looked  a  little 
older  than  of  yore,  but  not  much  ;  and  was  the  same  light-footed, 
light-hearted,  light-headed  lad,  as  when  he  charged  into  the 
parlor  at  the  head  of  Uncle  Sol  and  the  imaginary  boarders, 
^nd  lighted  him  to  bring  up  the  Madeira. 

"  Uncle  Sol,"   said  Walter,    "  I  don't  think  you're  well 


It4 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


You  haven't  eaten  any  breakfast.  I  shall  bring  a  doctor  ta 
you,  if  you  go  on  like  this." 

"  He  can't  give  me  what  I  want,  my  boy,"  said  Uncle  SoL 
"At  least  he  is  in  good  practice  if  he  can — and  then  he 
wouldn't." 

"  What  is  it.  Uncle  ?     Customers  ?  " 

"  Ay,"  returned  Solomon,  with  a  sigh.  "  Customers  would 
do." 

"  Confound  it,  Uncle  I "  said  Walter,  putting  down  his  break- 
fast cup  with  a  clatter,  and  striking  his  hand  on  the  table : 
"  when  I  see  the  people  going  up  and  down  the  street  in  shoals 
all  day,  and  passing  and  re-passing  the  shop  every  minute,  by 
scores,  I  feel  half  tempted  to  rush  out,  collar  somebody,  bring 
him  in,  and  7fiake  him  buy  fifty  pounds'  worth  of  instruments  for 
ready  money.  What  are  you  looking  in  at  the  door  for  ? — " 
continued  VValter,  apostrophizing  an  old  gentleman  with  a  pow- 
dered head  (inaudibly  to  him  of  course),  who  was  staring  at  a 
ship's  telescope  with  all  his  might  and  main.  "  Thafs  no  use. 
I  could  do  that.     Come  in  and  buy  it ! " 

The  old  gentleman,  however,  having  satiated  his  curiosity, 
walked  calmly  away. 

"There  he  goes  !  "  said  Walter.  "  That's  the  way  with  'em 
all.  But,  Uncle — I  say,  uncle  Sol  " — for  the  old  man  was  med- 
itating, and  had  not  responded  to  his  first  appeal.  "  Don't  be 
cast  down.  Don't  be  out  of  spirits,  Uncle.  When  orders  do 
come,  they'll  come  in  such  a  crowd,  you  won't  be  able  to  execute 
'em." 

"  I  shall  be  past  executing 'em,  whenever  they  come,  my  boy," 
returned  Solomon  Gills.  "  They'll  never  come  to  this  shop 
again,  till  I  am  out  of  it." 

"  1  say.  Uncle  !  You  mustn't  really,  you  know  !  "  urged 
Walter.     "  Don't !  " 

Old  Sol  endeavored  to  assume  a  cheery  look,  and  smiled 
across  the  little  table  at  him  as  pleasantly  as  he  could. 

"  There's  nothing  more  than  usual  the  matter  ;  is  there, 
Uncle  ?  "  said  Walter,  leaning  his  elbows  on  the  tea  tray,  and 
bending  over  to  speak  the  more  confidentially  and  kindly.  "  Be 
open  with  me,  Uncle,  if  there  is,  and  tell  me  all  about  it." 

•'  No,  no,  no,"  returned  Old  Sol.  "  More  than  usual  t  No, 
no.     What  should  there  be  the  matter  more  than  usual?" 

Walter  answered  with  an  incredulous  shake  of  the  head. 
"  That's  what  I  want  to  know,"  he  said,  "  and  you  ask  mcl 
I'll  tell  you  what,  Uncle,  when  I  see  you  like  this,  I  arn  quit? 
jjorrv  that  I  live  ^vith  you." 


THE  WOODEN  MIDSHIFMA.V.  i>i'j 

Old  Sol  opened  his  eyes  involuntarily. 

"  Yes.  Though  nobody  ever  was  happier  than  I  am  and 
always  have  been  with  you,  I  am  quite  sorry  that  I  live  with 
you,  when  1  see  you  with  anything  on  your  mind." 

"  I  am  a  little  dull  at  such  times,  I  know,"  observed  Sol- 
omon, meekly  rubbing  his  hands. 

"What  I  mean.  Uncle  Sol,"  pursued  Walter,  bending  over 
a  little  more  to  pat  him  on  the  shoulder,  "  is,  that  then  I  feel 
you  ought  to  have,  sitting  here  and  pouring  out  the  tea  instead 
of  me,  a  nice  little  dumpling  of  a  wife,  you  know, — a  comforta- 
ble, capital,  cosey  old  lady,  who  was  just  a  match  for  you,  and 
knew  how  to  manage  you,  and  keep  you  in  good  heart.  Here 
am  I,  as  loving  a  nephew  as  ever  was  (I  am  sure  I  ought  to 
be  !  )  but  I  am  only  a  nephew,  and  I  can't  be  such  a  companion 
to  you  when  you're  low  and  out  of  sorts  as  she  would  have 
made  herself,  years  ago,  though  I'm  sure  I'd  give  any  money 
if  I  could  cheer  you  up.  And  so  I  say,  when  I  see  you  with 
anything  on  your  mind,  that  I  feel  quite  sorry  you  haven't  got 
somebody  better  about  you  than  a  blundering  young  rough-and- 
tough  boy  like  me,  who  has  got  the  will  to  console  you.  Uncle, 
but  hasn't  got  the  way — hasn't  got  the  way,"  repeated  Walter, 
reaching  over  further  yet,  to  shake  his  uncle  by  the  hand. 

"  Wally,  my  dear  boy,"  said  Solomon,  "  if  the  cosey  little  old 
lady  had  taken  her  place  in  this  parlor  five  and  forty  years 
ago,  I  never  could  have  been  fonder  of  her  than  I  am  of  you." 

" /know  that.  Uncle  Sol,"  returned  Walter.  "Lord  bless 
you,  I  know  that.  But  you  wouldn't  have  had  the  whole  weight 
of  any  uncomfortable  secrets  if  she  had  been  with  you,  be- 
cause she  would  have  known  how  to  relieve  you  of  'em,  and  I 
don't." 

"  Yes,  yes,  you  do,"  returned  the  instrument  maker. 

"  Well  then,  what's  the  matter.  Uncle  Sol  "i  "  said  Walter, 
coaxingly.     "  Come  !     What's  the  matter  >  " 

Solomon  Gills  persisted  that  there  was  nothing  the  matter  \ 
and  maintained  it  so  resolutely,  that  his  nephew  had  no  resource 
but  to  make  a  very  indifferent  imitation  of  believing  him. 

"  All  I  can  say  is,  Uncle  Sol,  that  if  there  is " 

"  But  there  isn't,"  said  Solomon. 

"Very  well,"  said  Walter.  "Then  I've  no  more  to  say; 
and  that's  lucky,  for  my  time's  up  for  going  to  business.  I 
shall  look  in  by  and  by  when  I'm  out,  to  see  how  you  get  on, 
Uncle.  And  mind,  Uncle  !  I'll  never  believe  you  again,  and 
never  tell  you  anything  more  about  Mr.  Carker  the  Junior,  if  \ 
find  out  that  you  have  been  deceiving  me  !  " 


Il6  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

Solomon  Gills  laughingly  defied  him  to  find  out  anything  oi 
the  kind  ;  and  Waller,  revolving  in  his  thoughts  all  sorts  of  im- 
practicable ways  of  making  fortunes  and  placing  the  wooden 
midshipman  in  a  position  of  independence,  betook  himself  to 
the  offices  of  Dombey  and  Son  with  a  heavier  countenance  than 
he  usually  carried  there. 

There  lived  in  those  days,  round  the  corner — in  Bishopsgate 
Street  Without— one  Brogley,  sworn  broker  and  appraiser,  who 
kept  a  shop  where  every  description  of  second-hand  furniture 
was  exhibited  in  the  most  uncomfortable  aspect,  and  under  cir- 
cumstances and  in  combinations  the  most  completely  foreign 
to  its  purpose.  Dozens  of  chairs  hooked  on  to  washing-stands, 
which  with  difficulty  poised  themselves  on  the  shoulders  of  side- 
boards, which  in  their  turn  stood  upon  the  wrong  side  of  dining- 
tables,  gymnastic  with  their  legs  upward  on  the  tops  of  other 
dining-tables,  were  among  its  most  reasonable  arrangements. 
A  banquet  array  of  dish-covers,  wine-glasses,  and  decanters  was 
generally  to  be  seen,  spread  forth  upon  the  bosom  of  a  four- 
post  bedstead,  for  the  entertainment  of  such  genial  company  as 
half-a-dozen  pokers,  and  a  hall  lamp.  A  set  of  window  cur- 
tains with  no  windows  belonging  to  them,  would  be  seen  grace- 
fully draping  a  barricade  of  chests  of  drawers,  loaded  with  little 
jars  from  chemists'  shops  ;  while  a  homeless  hearth  rug,  severed 
from  its  natural  companion  the  fireside,  braved  the  shrewd  east 
wind  in  its  adversity,  and  trembled  in  melancholy  accord  with 
the  shrill  complainings  of  a  cabinet  piano,  wasting  away,  a  string 
a  day,  and  faintly  resounding  to  the  noises  of  the  street  in  its 
jangling  and  distracted  brain.  Of  motionless  clocks  that  never 
stirred  a  finger,  and  seemed  as  incapable  of  being  successfully 
wound  up,  as  the  pecuniary  affairs  of  their  former  owners,  there 
was  always  great  choice  in  Mr.  Brogley's  shop  ;  and  various 
looking-glasses,  accidentally  placed  at  compound  interest  of  re- 
flection and  refraction,  presented  to  the  eye  an  eternal  perspec- 
tive of  bankruptcy  and  ruin. 

Mr.  Brogley  himself  was  a  moist-eyed,  pink-complexioned, 
crisp-haired  man,  of  a  bulky  figure  and  an  easy  temper — for 
that  class  of  Caius  Marius  who  sits  upon  the  ruins  of  other 
people's  C'arthages,  can  keep  up  his  spirits  well  enough.  He 
had  looked  in  at  Solomon's  shop  sometimes  to  ask  a  question 
about  articles  in  Solomon's  way  of  business  ;  and  Waller  knew 
him  sufficiently  to  give  him  good-day  when  they  met  in  the 
street,  but  as  that  was  the  extent  of  the  broker's  acquaintance 
with  Solomon  Gills  also,  Walter  was  not  a  little  surprised 
when  he  came  back  in  the  course  of  the  forenoon,  agreeably  to 


TJtlR  WOODEI^  MIDSHIPMAN.  tif 

his  promise,  to  find  Mr.  Brogley  sitting  in  the  back  parlor  with 
his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  his  hat  hanging  up  behind  the 
door. 

"  Well,  Uncle  Sol !  "  said  Walter.  The  old  man  was  sitting 
ruefully  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  table,  with  his  spectacles 
over  his  eyes,  for  a  wonder,  instead  of  on  his  forehead.  "  How 
are  you  now  ?  " 

Solomon  shook  his  head,  and  waved  one  hand  towards  the 
broker,  as  introducing  him. 

"  Is  there  anything  the  matter  ? "  asked  Walter,  with  a 
catching  in  his  breath. 

"  No,  no.  There's  nothing  the  matter,"  said  Mr.  Brogley. 
"  Don't  let  it  put  you  out  of  the  way." 

Walter  looked  from  the  broker  to  his  uncle  in  mute  amaze- 
ment. 

"  The  fact  is,"  said  Mr.  Brogley,  "  there's  a  little  payment 
on  a  bond  debt — three  hundred  and  seventy  odd,  over  due : 
and  I'm  in  possession." 

"  In  possession  !  "  cried  Walter,  looking  round  at  the  shop. 

"  Ah !  "  said  Mr.  Brogley,  in  confidential  assent,  and  nod- 
ding his  head  as  if  he  would  urge  the  advisability  of  their  all 
being  comfortable  together.  "  It's  an  execution.  That's  what 
it  is.  Don't  let  it  put  you  out  of  the  way.  I  come  myself, 
because  of  keeping  it  quiet  and  sociable.  You  know  me.  It's 
quite  private." 

"  Uncle  Sol !  "  faltered  Walter. 

"  Wally,  my  boy,"  returned  his  uncle.  "  It's  the  first  time. 
Such  a  calamity  never  happened  to  me  before.  I'm  an  old 
man  to  begin."  Pushing  up  his  spectacles  again  (for  they 
were  useless  any  longer  to  conceal  his  emotion),  he  covered  his 
face  with  his  hand,  and  sobbed  aloud,  and  his  tears  fell  down 
upon  his  coffee-colored  waistcoat. 

"  Uncle  Sol !  Pray  !  oh  don't !  "  exclaimed  Walter,  who 
really  felt  a  thrill  of  terror  in  seeing  the  old  man  weep.  "  For 
God's  sake  don't  do  that.     Mr.  Brogley,  what  shall  I  do  ? " 

"  /should  recommend  you  looking  up  a  friend  or  so,"  said 
Mr.  Brogley,  "  and  talking  it  over." 

"  To  be  sure  ! "  cried  Walter,  catching  at  anything.  "  Cer- 
tainly !  Thankee.  Captain  Cuttle's  the  man.  Uncle.  Wait 
till  I  run  to  Captain  Cuttle.  Keep  your  eye  upon  my  uncle, 
will  you  Mr.  Brogley,  and  make  him  as  comfortable  as  you  can 
while  I  am  gone  .?  Don't  despair.  Uncle  Sol.  Try  and  keep 
a  good  heart,  there's  a  dear  fellow  !  " 

Saying  this  with  great  fervor,  and  disregarding  the  olcj 


1 1 S  DOMBE  Y  AKD  SOA'. 

man's  broken  remonstrances,  Walter  dashed  out  of  the  shop 
again  as  hard  as  he  could  go ;  and,  having  hurried  round  to  the 
office  to  excuse  himself  on  the  plea  of  his  uncle's  sudden  illness, 
set  off,  full  speed,  for  Captain  Cuttle's  residence. 

Everything  seemed  altered  as  he  ran  along  the  streets. 
There  were  the  usual  entanglement  and  noise  of  carts,  drays, 
omnibuses,  wagons,  and  foot  passengers,  but  the  misfortune 
that  had  fallen  on  the  wooden  midshipman  made  it  strange  and 
new.  Houses  and  shops  were  different  from  what  they  used 
to  be,  and  bore  Mr.  Brogley's  warrant  on  their  fronts  in  large 
characters.  The  broker  seemed  to  have  got  hold  of  the  very 
churches  ;  for  their  spires  rose  into  the  sky  with  an  unwonted 
air.  Even  the  sky  itself  was  changed,  and  had  an  execution 
in  it  plainly. 

Captain  Cuttle  lived  on  the  brink  of  a  little  canal  near  the 
India  Docks,  where  there  was  a  swivel  bridge  which  opened 
now  and  then  to  let  some  wandering  monster  of  a  ship  come 
roaming  up  the  street  like  a  stranded  leviathan.  The  gradual 
change  from  land  to  water,  on  the  approach  to  Captain  Cuttle's 
lodgings,  was  curious.  It  began  with  the  erection  of  flag  staffs, 
as  appurtenances  to  public-houses ;  then  came  slopsellers' 
shops,  with  Guernsey  shirts,  sou'wester  hats,  and  canvas  pan- 
taloons, at  once  the  tightest  and  the  loosest  of  their  order, 
hanging  up  outside.  These  were  succeeded  by  anchor  and 
chain-cable  forges,  where  sledge  hammers  were  dinging  upon 
iron  all  day  long.  Then  came  rows  of  houses,  with  little  vane- 
surmounted  masts  uprearing  themselves  from  among  the  scarlet 
beans.  Then,  ditches.  Then  pollard  willows.  Then  more 
ditches.  Then  unaccountable  patches  of  dirty  water,  hardly  to 
be  descried,  for  the  ships  that  covered  them.  Then,  the  air 
was  perfumed  with  chips  ;  and  all  other  trades  were  swallowed 
up  in  mast,  oar,  and  block  making,  and  boat  building.  Then, 
the  ground  grew  marshy  and  unsettled.  Then,  there  was 
nothing  to  be  snielt  but  rum  and  sugar.  Then,  Captain  Cuttle's 
lodgings — at  once  a  first  floor  and  a  top  story,  in  Brig  Place — 
were  close  before  you. 

The  Captain  was  one  of  those  timber-looking  men,  suits  of 
oak  as  well  as  hearts,  whom  it  is  almost  impossible  for  the 
liveliest  imagination  to  separate  from  any  part  of  their  dress, 
however  insignificant.  Accordingly,  when  Walter  knocked  at 
the  door,  and  the  Captain  instantly  poked  his  head  out  of  one 
of  his  little  front  windows,  and  hailed  him,  with  the  hard  glaz.ed 
hat  already  on  it,  and  the  shirt-collar  like  a  sail,  and  the  wide 
suit  of  blue,  all  standing  as  usual,  Walter  was  as  fully  persuaded 


THE  WOOD  EN  MIDSHIPMAN.  119 

that  he  was  always  in  that  state,  as  if  the  Captain  had  been  a 
bird  and  those  had  been  his  feathers. 

"  Wal'r,  my  lad !  "  said  Captain  Cuttle.  "  Stand  by  and 
knock  again.     Hard  !     It's  washing  day." 

Walter,  in  his  impatience,  gave  a  prodigious  thump  with  the 
knocker. 

"  Hard  it  is !  "  said  Captain  Cuttle,  and  immediately  drew 
in  his  head,  as  if  he  expected  a  squall. 

Nor  was  he  mistaken  :  for  a  widow  lady,  with  her  sleeves 
rolled  up  to  her  shoulders,  and  her  arms  frothy  with  soap-suds 
and  smoking  with  hot  water,  replied  to  the  summons  with 
startling  rapidity.  Before  she  looked  at  Walter  she  looked  at 
the  knocker,  and  then,  measuring  him  with  her  eyes  from  head 
to  foot,  said  she  wondered  he  had  left  any  of  it. 

"  Captain  Cuttle's  at  home,  I  know,"  said  Walter,  with  a 
conciliatory  smile. 

"  Is  he  ?  "  replied  the  widow  lady.     "  In-deed  !  " 
"  He   has   just   been   speaking    to  me,"   said   Walter,  in 
breathless  explanation. 

•'  Has  he  .?  "  replied  the  widow  lady.  "  Then  p'raps  you'll 
give  him  Mrs.  MacStinger's  respects,  and  say  that  the  next 
time  he  lowers  himself  and  his  lodgings  by  talking  out  of 
winder  she'll  thank  him  to  come  down  and  open  the  door  too." 
Mrs.  MacStinger  spoke  loud,  and  listened  for  any  observations 
that  might  be  offered  from  the  first  floor, 

"I'll  mention  it,"  said  Walter,  "if  you'll  have  the  goodness 
to  let  me  in.  Ma'am." 

For  he  was  repelled  by  a  wooden  fortification  extending 
across  the  doorway,  and  put  there  to  prevent  the  little  Mac- 
Stingers  in  their  moments  of  recreation  from  tumbling  down 
the  steps. 

"  A  boy  that  can  knock  my  door  down,"  said  Mrs.  Mac* 
Stinger,  contemptuously,  "  can  get  over  that,  I  should  hope  ! " 
But  Walter,  taking  this  as  a  permission  to  enter,  and  getting  ovei* 
it,  Mrs.  MacStinger  immediately  demanded  whether  an  English- 
woman's house  was  her  castle  or  not ;  and  whether  she  was  to 
be  broke  in  upon  by  '  raff.'  On  these  subjects  her  thirst  for 
information  was  still  very  importunate,  when  Walter,  having 
made  his  way  up  the  little  staircase  through  an  artificial  fog 
occasioned  by  the  washing,  which  covered  the  banisters  with  a 
clammy  perspiration,  entered  Captain  Cuttle's  room,  and  found 
that  gendeman  in  ambush  behind  the  door, 

"Never  owed  her  a  penny,  Wal'r,"  said  Captain  Cuttle,  in  a 
l0>y  vpjce,  ^ncJ  with  visibl?  mark§  of  trepidation  on  his  ?ownt?- 


r  2 o  DOAfBE  V  AND  SON. 

nance.  Done  her  a  world  of  tjood  turns,  and  the  children 
too.     Vixen  at  times,  though.     Whew  ! "' 

■'  /should  go  away,  Captain  Cuttle,"  said  Walter. 

"  Dursn't  do  it,  Wal'r,"  returned  the  Captain.  "  She'd  find 
me  out,  wherever  I  went.     Sit  down.     How's  Gills  ?  " 

The  Captain  was  dining  (in  his  hat)  off  cold  loin  of  mut- 
•ton,  porter,  and  some  smoking  hot  potatoes,  which  he  had 
cooked  himself,  and  took  out  of  a  little  saucepan  before  the 
fire  as  he  wanted  them.  He  unscrewed  his  hook  at  dinner 
time,  and  screwed  a  knife  into  its  wooden  socket  instead,  with 
which  he  had  already  begun  to  peel  one  of  these  potatoes  for 
Walter.  His  rooms  were  very  small,  and  strongly  impregnated 
with  tobacco-smoke,  but  snug  enough  ;  ever)'thing  being  stowed 
away,  as  if  there  were  an  earthquake  regularly  every  half 
hour. 

"  How's  Gills  1 "  inquired  the  Captain. 

Walter,  who  had  by  this  time  recovered  his  breath,  and  lost 
his  spirits — or  such  temporary  spirits  as  his  rapid  journey  had 
given  him — looked  at  his  questioner  for  a  moment,  said  "  Oh,' 
Captain  Cuttle  !  "  and  burst  into  tears. 

No  words  can  describe  the  Captain's  consternation  at  this 
sight.  Mrs.  MacStinger  faded  into  nothing  before  it.  He 
dropped  the  potato  and  the  fork — and  would  have  dropped  the 
knife  too  if  he  could — and  sat  gazing  at  the  boy,  as  if  he  ex- 
pected to  hear  next  moment  that  a  gulf  had  opened  in  the  City, 
which  had  swallowed  up  his  old  friend,  coffee-colored  suit,  but- 
tons, chronometer,  spectacles,  and  all. 

But  when  Walter  told  him  what  was  really  the  matter.  Cap- 
tain Cuttle,  after  a  moment's  reflection,  started  up  into  full  ac- 
tivity. He  emptied  out  of  a  little  tin  canister  on  the  top  shelf 
of  the  cupboard,  his  whole  stock  of  ready  money  (amounting 
to  thirteen  pounds  and  half-a-crown),  which  he  transferred  to 
one  of  the  pockets  of  his  square  blue  coat ;  further  enriched 
that  repository  with  the  contents  of  his  plate  chest,  consisting 
of  two  withered  atomies  of  teaspoons,  and  an  obsolete  pair  oi 
knock-knee'd  sugar-tongs  ;  pulled  up  his  immense  double-cased 
silver  watch  from  the  depths  in  which  it  reposed,  to  assure  him- 
self that  that  valuable  was  sound  and  whole  ;  re-attached  the 
hook  to  his  right  wrist,  and  seizing  the  stick  covered  over  with 
nobs,  bade  Walter  come  along. 

Remembering,  however,  in  the  midst  of  his  virtuous  excite- 
ment, that  Mrs.  MacStinger  might  be  lying  in  wait  below,  Cap- 
tain Cuttle  hesitated  at  last,  not  without  glancing  at  the  win- 
dow, as  if  he  had  .some  thoughts  of  escaping  bv  that  unusua) 


TME  WOODEN  MIDSHIPMAN-.  ^^i 

means  of  egress,  rather  than  encounter  his  terrible  enemy.  He 
decided,  however,  in  favor  of  stratagem. 

"Wal'r,"  said  the  Captain,  with  a  timid  wink,  "go  afore, 
my  lad.  Sing  out,  '  good-by,  Captain  Cuttle,'  when  you're 
in  the  passage,  and  shut  the  door.  Then  wait  at  the  corner  of 
the  street  'till  you  see  me." 

These  directions  were  not  issued  without  a  previous  knowl- 
edge of  the  enemy's  tactics,  for  when  Walter  got  down  stairs, 
Mrs.  MacStinger  glided  out  of  the  little  back  kitchen,  like  an 
avenging  spirit.  But  not  gliding  out  upon  the  captain,  as  she 
had  expected,  she  merely  made  a  further  allusion  to  the 
knocker,  and  glided  in  again. 

Some  five  minutes  elapsed  before  Captain  Cuttle  could  sum- 
mon courage  to  attempt  his  escape  ;  for  Walter  waited  so  long 
at  the  street  corner,  looking  back  at  the  house,  before  there 
were  any  symptoms  of  the  hard  glazed  hat.  At  length  the 
Captain  burst  out  of  the  door  with  the  suddenness  of  an  ex- 
plosion, and  coming  towards  him  at  a  great  pace,  and  never 
once  looking  over  his  shoulder,  pretended,  as  soon  as  they 
were  well  out  of  the  street,  to  whistle  a  tune. 

"  Uncle  much  hove  down,  Wal'r?  "  inquired  the  Captain, as 
they  were  walking  along. 

"  I'm  afraid  so.  If  you  had  seen  him  this  morning,  you 
would  never  have  forgotten  it." 

"Walk  fast,  Wal'r,  my  lad,"  returned  the  Captain,  mending 
his  pace  ;  "  and  walk  the  same  all  the  days  of  your  life.  Over- 
haul the  catechism  for  that  advice,  and  keep  it !  " 

The  Captain  was  too  busy  with  his  own  thoughts  of  Solo- 
mon Gills,  mingled  perhaps  with  some  reflection  on  his  late 
escape  from  Mrs.  MacStinger,  to  offei  any  further  quotations 
on  the  way  for  Walter's  moral  improvement.  They  inter- 
changed no  other  word  until  they  arrived  at  old  Sol's  door, 
where  the  unfortunate  wooden  midshipman,  with  his  instru- 
ment at  his  eye,  seemed  to  be  surveying  the  whole  horizon  in 
search  of  some  friend  to  help  him  out  of  his  difficulty. 

"  Gills  !  "  said  the  Captain,  hurrying  into  the  back  parlor, 
and  taking  him  by  the  hand  quite  tenderly.  "  Lay  your  head 
well  to  the  wind,  and  we'll  fight  through  it.  All  you've  got  to 
do,"  said  the  Captain,  with  the  solemnity  of  a  man  who  was 
delivering  himself  of  one  of  the  most  precious  practical  tenets 
ever  discovered  by  human  wisdom,  "  is  to  lay  your  head  well  to 
the  wind,  and  we'll  fight  through  it." 

Old  Sol  returned  the  pressure  of  his  hand,  and  thanked 
him. 


tii  DOMIiFA'  ANJy  SON- 

Captain  Cuttle,  tlicn,  with  a  gravity  suitable  to  the  nature 
of  the  occasion,  put  down  upon  the  table  the  two  teaspoons 
and  the  sugar-tongs,  the  silver  watch,  and  the  ready  money ; 
and  asked  Mr.  Brogley,  the  broker,  what  the  damage  was. 

"  Come  !     What  do  you  make  of  it  ?  "  said  Captain  Cuttle. 

"Why,  Lord  help  you!"  returned  the  broker;  you  don't 
suppose  that  property's  of  any  use,  do  you  ? " 

"Why  not  ?  "  inquired  the  Captain. 

"  Why  ?  The  amount's  three  hundred  and  seventy,  odd," 
replied  the  broker. 

"  Never  mind,"  returned  the  Captain,  though  he  was  evi- 
dently dismayed  at  the  figures  :  "  all's  fish  that  comes  to  your 
net,  I  suppose?" 

"  Certainly,"  said  Mr.  Brogley.  "But  sprats  an't  whales, 
you  know." 

The  philosophy  of  this  observation  seemed  to  strike  the 
Captain.  He  ruminated  for  a  minute  ;  eyeing  the  broker, 
meanwhile,  as  a  deep  genius  ;  and  then  called  the  instrument- 
maker  aside. 

"  Gills,"  said  Captain  Cuttle,  "  what's  the  bearings  of  this 
business  }     Who's  the  creditor.^  " 

"  Hush  !  "  returned  the  old  man.  "  Come  away.  Don't 
speak  before  Wally.  It's  a  matter  of  security  for  Wally's 
father — an  old  bond.  I've  paid  a  good  deal  of  it,  Ned,  but 
the  times  are  so  bad  with  me  that  I  can't  do  more  just  now. 
I've  foreseen  it,  but  I  couldn't  help  it.  Not  a  word  before 
Wally,  for  all  the  world." 

"  You've  got  some  money,  haven't  you  ?  "  wliispered  the 
Captain. 

"  Yes,  yes — oh  yes — I've  got  some,"  returned  Old  Sol,  first 
putting  his  hands  into  his  empty  pockets,  and  then  squeezing 
his  Welsh  wig  between  them,  as  if  he  thought  he  might  wring 
some  gold  out  of  it  ;  "  but  I — the  little  I  have  got,  isn't  convert- 
ible, Ned ;  it  can't  be  got  at.  I  have  been  trj'ing  to  do  some- 
thing with  it  for  Wally,  and  I'm  old  fashioned,  and  behind  the 
time.  It's  here  and  there,  and — and,  in  short,  it's  as  good  as 
nowhere,"  said  the  old  man,  looking  in  bewilderment  about 
him. 

He  had  so  much  the  air  of  a  half-witted  person  who  had  been 
hiding  his  money  in  a  variety  of  places,  and  had  forgotten 
where,  that  the  Captain  followed  his  eyes,  not  without  a  faint 
hope  that  he  might  remember  some  few  hundred  pounds  con- 
cealed up  the  chimney,  or  down  in  the  cellar.  But  Solonioq 
Gills  knew  better  than  that. 


Tim  WOODIlN  MIDSHIPMAN.  133 

•*rm  behind  the  time  altogether,  my  dear  Ned,"  said  Sol, 
in  resigned  despair,  "  a  long  way.  It's  no  use  my  lagging  on  so 
far  behind  it.  The  stock  had  better  be  sold— it's  worth  more 
than  this  debt — and  I  had  better  go  and  die  somewhere,  on  the 
balance.  I  haven't  any  energy  left.  I  don't  understand  things. 
This  had  better  be  the  end  of  it.  Let  'em  sell  the  stock  and 
take  him  down,"  said  the  old  man,  pointing  feebly  to  the 
wooden  midshipman,  "  and  let  us  both  be  broken  up  together." 

"  And  what  d'ye  mean  to  do  with  Wal'r  ?"  said  the  Captain. 
"  There,  there !  Sit  ye  down.  Gills,  sit  ye  down,  and  let  me 
think  o'  this.  If  I  warn't  a  man  on  a  small  annuity,  that  was 
large  enough  till  to-day,  I  hadn't  need  to  think  of  it.  But  you 
only  lay  your  head  well  to  the  wind,"  said  the  Captain,  again 
administering  that  unanswerable  piece  of  consolation,  "  and 
you're  all  right !  " 

Old  Sol  thanked  him  from  his  heart,  and  went  and  laid  it 
against  the  back  parlor  fiie-place  instead. 

Captain  Cuttle  walked  up  and  down  the  shop  for  some  time 
cogitating  profoundly,  and  bringing  his  bushy  black  eyebrows 
to  bear  so  heavily  on  his  nose,  like  clouds  setting  on  a  moun- 
tain, that  Walter  was  afraid  to  offer  any  interruption  to  the  cur- 
rent of  his  reflections.  Mr.  Brogley,  who  was  averse  to  being 
any  constraint  upon  the  party,  and  who  had  an  ingenious  cast  of 
mind,  went,  softly  whistling,  among  the  stock ;  rattling  weather 
glasses,  shaking  compasses  as  if  they  were  physic,  catching  up 
keys  with  loadstones,  looking  through  telescopes,  endeavoring 
to  make  himself  acquainted  with  the  use  of  the  globes,  setting 
parallel  rulers  astride  on  to  his  nose,  and  amusing  himself  with 
other  philosophical  transactions. 

"  Wal'r  ?  "  said  the  Captain  at  last.     "  I've  got  it." 

"  Have  you,  Captain  Cuttle  ? "  cried  Walter,  with  great  ani- 
mation. 

"  Come  this  way,  my  lad,"  said  the  Captain.  "  The  stock's 
one  security.  I'm  another.  Your  governor's  the  man  to  ad- 
vance the  money." 

"  Mr.  Dombey !  "  faltered  Walter. 

The  Captain  nodded  gravely.  "Look  at  him,"  he  said. 
"  Look  at  Gills.  If  they  was  to  sell  off  these  things  now.  he'd 
die  of  it.  You  know  he  would.  We  mustn't  leave  a  stone  un- 
turned — and  there's  a  stone  for  you." 

"  A  stone  ! — Mr  Dombey  !  "  faltered  Walter. 

"  You  run  round  to  the  office,  first  of  all,  and  see  if  he's 
there,"  said  Captaiu  Cuttle,  clapping  him  on  the  back. 
"  Quick ! "' 


ti4  DOMBEY  AND  SON 

Walter  felt  he  must  not  dispute  the  command — a  glance  at 
his  uncle  would  have  determined  him  if  he  had  felt  otherwise—* 
and  disappeared  to  execute  it.  He  soon  returned,  out  of  breath, 
to  say  that  Mr.  Dombey  was  not  there.  It  was  Saturday,  and 
he  had  gone  to  Brighton. 

"  I  tell  you  what,  Wal'r !  "  said  the  Captain,  who  seemed  to. 
have  prepared  himself  for  this  contingency  in  his  absence. 
"  We'll  go  to  Brighton.  I'll  back  you,  my  boy.  I'll  back  you, 
Wal'r.     We'll  go  to  Brighton  by  the  afternoon's  coach." 

If  the  application  must  be  made  to  Mr.  Dombey  at  all, 
which  was  awful  to  think  of,  Walter  felt  that  he  would  rather 
prefer  it  alone  and  unassisted,  than  backed  by  the  personal  in- 
fluence of  Captain  Cuttle,  to  which  he  hardly  thought  Mr.  Dom- 
bey would  attach  much  weight.  But  as  the  Captain  appeared 
to  be  of  quite  another  opinion,  and  was  bent  upon  it,  and  as  his 
friendship  was  too  zealous  and  serious  to  be  trifled  with  by  one 
so  much  younger  than  himself,  he  forebore  to  hint  the  least  ob- 
jection. Cuttle,  therefore,  taking  a  hurried  leave  of  Solomon 
Gills,  and  returning  the  ready  money,  the  teaspoons,  the  sugar- 
tongs,  and  the  silver-watch,  to  his  pocket — with  a  view,  as  Walter 
thought,  with  horror,  to  make  a  gorgeous  impression  on  Mr. 
Dombey — bore  him  off  to  the  coach-office,  without  a  minute's 
delay,  and  repeatedly  assured  him,  on  the  road,  that  he  would 
Stick  by  him  to  the  last. 


CHAPTER  X. 

CONTAINING    THE    SEQUEL    OF    THE    MIDSHIPMAN'S    DISASTER. 

Major  Bagstock,  after  long  and  frequent  observation  of 
Paul,  across  Princess's  Place,  through  his  double-barrelled 
opera  glass  ;  and  after  receiving  many  minute  reports,  daily, 
weekly,  and  monthly,  on  that  subject,  from  the  native  who  kept 
himself  in  constant  communication  with  Miss  'lox's  maid  for 
that  purpose  ;  came  to  the  conclusion  that  Dombey,  Sir,  was  a 
man  to  be  known,  and  that  J.  B.  was  the  boy  to  make  his  ac- 
quaintance. 

Miss  Tox,  however,  maintaining  her  reserved  behavior,  and 
frigidly  declining  to  understand  the  Maior  whenever  he  called 
(which  he  often  did)  on  any  little  fishing  excursion  connected 
with  this  project,  the  Major,  in  spite,  of  his  constitutional  tough- 


THE  MIDSHIPMAN'S  DISASTER.  ,2,5 

ness  and  slyness,  was  fain  to  leave  the  accomplishment  of  his 
desire  in  some  measure  to  chance,  "which,"  as  he  was  used  to 
observe  with  chuckles  at  his  club,  "  has  been  fifty  to  one  in  fa- 
vor of  Joey  B.,  Sir,  ever  since  his  elder  brother  died  of  Yellow 
Jack  in  the  West  Indies." 

It  was  some  time  coming  to  his  aid  in  the  present  instance, 
but  it  befriended  him  at  last.  When  the  dark  servant,  with  full 
particulars,  reported  Miss  Tox  absent  on  Brighton  service,  the 
Major  was  suddenly  touched  with  affectionate  reminiscences  of 
his  friend  Bill  Bitherstone  of  Bengal,  who  had  written  to  ask 
him,  if  he  ever  went  that  way,  to  bestow  a  call  upon  his  only 
son.  But  when  the  same  dark  servant  reported  Paul  at  Mrs. 
Pipchin's,  and  the  Major,  referring  to  the  letter  favored  by 
Master  Bitherstone  on  his  arrival  in  England — to  which  he  had 
never  had  the  least  idea  of  paying  any  attention — saw  the  open- 
ing that  presented  itself,  he  was  made  so  rabid  by  the  gout, 
with  which  he  happened  to  be  then  laid  up,  that  he  threw  a 
footstool  at  the  dark  servant  in  return  for  his  intelligence,  and 
swore  he  would  be  the  death  of  the  rascal  before  he  had  done 
with  him  :  which  the  dark  servant  was  more  than  half  disposed 
to  believe. 

At  length  the  Major  being  released  from  his  fit,  went  one 
Saturday  growling  down  to  Brighton,  with  the  native  behind 
him  :  apostrophizing  Miss  Tox  all  the  way,  and  gloating  over  the 
prospect  of  carrying  by  storm  the  distinguished  friend  to  whom 
she  attached  so  much  mystery,  and  for  whom  she  had  deserted 
him. 

"  Would  you,  Ma'am,  would  you  !  "  said  the  Major,  strain- 
ing with  vindictiveness,  and  swelling  every  already  swollen  vein 
in  his  head.  "  Would  you  give  Joey  B.  the  go-by,  Ma'am  ? 
Not  yet,  Ma'am,  not  yet !  Damme,  not  yet,  Sir.  Joe  is 
awake,  Ma'am.  Bagstock  is  alive.  Sir.  J.  B.  knows  amove  or 
two.  Ma'am.  Josh  has  his  weather-eye  open.  Sir.  You'll  find 
him  tough.  Ma'am.  Tough,  Sir,  tough  is  Joseph.  Tough,  and 
de-vilish  sly !  " 

And  very  tough  indeed  Master  Bitherstone  found  him,  when 
he  took  that  young  gentleman  out  for  a  walk.  But  the  Major, 
with  his  complexion  like  a  Stilton  cheese,  and  his  eyes  like  a 
prawn's,  went  roving  about,  perfectly  indifferent  to  Master 
Bitherstone's  amusement,  and  dragging  Master  Bitherstone 
along,  while  he  looked  about  him  high  and  low,  for  Mr.  Dombey 
and  his  children. 

In  good  time  the  Major,  previously  instructed  by  Mrs.  Pip- 
dijn,  spied  out  Paul  and  Florence,  ancl  Ipor^  down  upon  t|iptT)'| 


,36  ^0:^rBEY  AND  SON. 

there  '.*^-*',  >  stately  gentleman  (Mr.  Dombey,  doubtless)  m 
1ieir  company.  Charging  with  Master  Bilherstone  into  the 
verj'  heart  of  the  little  squadron,  it  fell  out,  of  course,  that 
Master  Bitherstone  spoke  to  his  fellow-sufferers.  Upon  that 
the  Major  stopped  to  notice  and  admire  them  ;  remembered 
with  amazement  that  he  had  seen  and  spoken  to  them  at  his 
friend  Miss  Tox's  in  Princess's  Place  ;  opined  that  Paul  was  a 
devilish  fine  fellow,  and  his  own  little  friend  ;  inquired  if  he 
remembered  Joey  B.  the  Major  ;  and  finally,  with  a  sudden 
recollection  of  the  conventionalities  of  life,  turned  and  apologized 
to  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  But  my  little  friend  here,  Sir,"  said  the  Major,  "  makes  a 
boy  of  me  again.  An  old  soldier.  Sir — Major  Bagstock,  at  your 
service — is  not  ashamed  to  confess  it."  Here  the  Major  lifted 
his  hat.  "  Damme,  Sir,''  cried  the  Major  with  sudden  warmth, 
"  I  envy  you."  Then  he  recollected  himself,  and  added, 
**  Excuse  my  freedom." 

Mr.  Dombey  begged  he  wouldn't  mention  it. 

"  An  o4d  compaigner.  Sir,"  said  the  Major,  "  a  smoke-dried, 
sun-burnt,  used-up,  invalided  old  dog  of  a  Major,  Sir,  was  not 
afraid  of  being  condemned  for  his  whim  by  a  man  like  Mr. 
Dombey.  I  have  the  honor  of  addressing  Mr.  Dombey,  I  be- 
lieve ? " 

"  I  am  the  present  unworthy  representative  of  that  name, 
Major,"  returned  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  By  G — ,  Sir,"  said  the  Major,  "  it's  a  great  name.  It's  a 
name.  Sir,"  said  the  Major  firmly,  as  if  he  defied  Mr.  Dombey 
to  contradict  him,  and  would  feel  it  his  painful  duty  to  bully 
him  if  he  did,  "  that  is  known  and  honored  in  the  British  pos- 
sessions abroad.  It  is  a  name,  Sir,  that  a  man  is  proud  to 
recognize.  There  is  nothing  adulatory  in  Joseph  Bagstock,  Sir. 
His  Royal  Highness  the  Duke  of  York  obser\ed  on  more  than 
one  occasion,  *  there  is  no  adulation  in  Joey.  He  is  a  plain  old 
soldier  is  Joe.  He  is  tough  to  a  fault  is  Joseph  : '  but  it's  a 
great  name.  Sir.  By  the  Lord,  it's  a  great  name  !  "  said  the 
Major,  solemnly. 

"  You  are  good  enough  to  rate  it  higher  than  it  deserves, 
perhaps.  Major,"  returned  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  No,  Sir,"  said  the  Major.  "  My  little  friend  here.  Sir,  will 
certify  for  Joseph  Bagstock  that  he  is  a  thorough-going,  down- 
right, plain-spoken,  old  Trump,  Sir,  and  nothing  more.  That 
boy,  Sir,"  said  the  Major  in  a  lower  tone,  "will  live  in  history. 
That  boy,  Sir,  is  not  a  common  production,  Take  Q.ire  of  hinr 
Mr.  I>omt>ey," 


THE  MIDSHIPMAN'S  DISASTER.  ,27 

Mr.  Dombey  seemed  to  intimate  that  he  would  endeavor  to 
do  so, 

"  Here  is  a  boy  here,  Sir,"  pursued  the  Major,  confidentially, 
and  giving  him  a  thrust  with  his  cane.  "  Son  of  Bitherstone  of 
Bengal.  Bill  Bitherstone  formerly  of  ours.  That  boy's  father 
and  myself,  Sir,  were  sworn  friends.  Wherever  you  went.  Sir, 
you  heard  of  nothing  but  Bill  Bitherstone  and  Joe  Bagstock. 
Am  I  blind  to  that  boy's  defects  ?  By  no  means.  He's  a  fool, 
Sir." 

Mr.  Dombey  glanced  at  the  libelled  Master  Bitherstone,  of 
whom  he  knew  at  least  as  much  as  the  Major  did,  and  said,  in 
quite  a  complacent  manner,  "  Really  ?  " 

"  That  is  what  he  is,  Sir,"  said  the  Major.  "  He's  a  fool. 
Joe  Bagstock  never  minces  matters.  The  son  of  my  old  friend 
Bill  Bitherstone,  of  Bengal,  is  a  born  fool,  Sir."  Here  the 
Major  laughed  till  he  was  almost  black.  "  My  little  friend  is 
destined  for  a  public  school,  I  presume,  Mr.  Dombey?"  said 
the  Major  when  he  had  recovered. 

"  I  am  not  quite  decided,  returned  Mr.  Dombey.  "  I  think 
not.     He  is  delicate." 

"  If  he's  delicate.  Sir,"  said  the  Major,  "  you  are  right 
None  but  the  tough  fellows  could  live  through  it.  Sir,  at  Sand- 
hurst. We  put  each  other  to  the  torture  there.  Sir.  We  roasted 
the  new  fellows  at  a  slow  fire,  and  hung  'em  out  of  a  three  pair  of 
stairs  window,  with  their  heads  downwards.  Joseph  Bagstock, 
Sir,  was  held  out  of  the  window  by  the  heels  of  his  boots,  for 
thirteen  minutes  by  the  college  clock." 

The  Major  might  have  appealed  to  his  countenance  in 
corroboration  of  this  story.  It  certainly  looked  as  if  he  had 
hung  out  a  little  too  long. 

"  But  it  made  us  what  we  were.  Sir,"  said  the  Major,  settling 
his  shirt  frill.  "  We  were  iron,  Sir,  and  it  forged  us.  Are  you 
remaining  here,  Mr.  Dombey  ?  " 

"I  generally  come  down  once  a  week.  Major,"  returned  that 
gentleman.     "  I  stay  at  the  Bedford." 

"  I  shall  have  the  honor  of  calling  at  the  Bedford,  Sir,  if 
you'll  permit  me,"  said  the  Major.  "Joey  B.,  Sir,  is  not  in 
general  a  calling  man,  but  Mr.  Dombey's  is  not  a  common 
name.  I  am  much  indebted  to  my  little  friend.  Sir,  for  the  honor 
of  this  introduction." 

Mr.  Dombey  made  a  very  gracious  reply ;  and  Major  Bag- 
stock,  having  patted  Paul  on  the  head,  and  said  of  Horence 
that  her  eyes  would  play  the  Devil  with  the  youngsters  before 
long — "  and  the  oldsters  too.  Sir,  if  you  come  to  that,"  added 


,28  DOMBEY  AND  SON! 

the  Major,  chuckling  very  much  —  stirred  up  Master  Either. 
stone  with  his  walking-stick,  and  departed  with  that  young  gen- 
tleman, at  a  kind  of  half-trot ;  rolling  his  head  and  coughing 
■with  great  dignity,  as  he  staggered  away,  with  his  legs  very 
wide  assunder. 

In  fulfilment  of  his  promise,  the  Major  afterwards  called  on 
Mr.  Dombey  ;  and  Mr.  Dombey,  having  referred  to  the  army 
list,  afterwards  called  on  the  Major.  Then  the  Major  called  at 
Mr.  Dombey's  house  in  town  ;  and  came  down  again,  in  the 
same  coach  as  Mr.  Dombey.  In  short,  Mr.  Dombey  and  the 
Major  got  on  uncommonly  well  together,  and  uncommonly  fast ; 
and  Mr.  Dombey  observed  of  the  Major,  to  his  sister,  that  be- 
sides being  quite  a  military  man  he  was  really  something  more, 
as  he  had  a  very  admirable  idea  of  the  importance  of  things 
unconnected  with  his  own  profession. 

At  length  Mr.  Dombey,  bringing  down  Miss  Tox  and  Mrs. 
Chick  to  see  the  children,  and  finding  the  Major  again  at 
Brighton,  invited  him  to  dinner  at  the  Bedford,  and  com- 
plimented Miss  Tox  highly,  beforehand,  on  her  neighbor  and 
acquaintance.  Notwithstanding  the  palpitation  of  the  heart 
which  these  allusions  occasioned  her,  they  were  anything  but 
disagreeable  to  Miss  Tox,  as  they  enabled  her  to  be  extremely 
interesting,  and  to  manifest  an  occasional  incoherence  and  dis- 
traction which  she  was  not  at  all  unwilling  to  display.  The 
Major  gave  her  abundant  opportunities  of  exhibiting  this  emo- 
tion :  being  profuse  in  his  complaints,  at  dinner,  of  her  deser- 
tion of  him  and  Princess's  Place  :  and  as  he  appeared  to  derive 
great  enjoyment  from  making  them,  they  all  got  on  very  well. 

None  the  worse  on  account  of  the  Major  taking  charge  of 
the  whole  conversation,  and  showing  as  great  an  appetite  in 
that  respect  as  in  regard  of  the  various  dainties  on  the  table, 
among  which  he  may  be  almost  said  to  have  wallowed  :  greatly 
to  the  aggravation  qf  his  inflammatory  tendencies.  Mr.  Dom- 
bey's habitual  silence  and  reserve  yielding  readily  to  this  usurpa- 
tion, the  Major  felt  that  he  was  coming  out  and  shining :  and 
in  the  flow  of  spirits  thus  engendered,  rang  such  an  infinite 
number  of  new  changes  on  his  own  name  that  he  quite  aston- 
ished himself.  In  a  word,  they  were  all  very  well  pleased. 
The  Major  was  considered  to  possess  an  inexhaustible  fund  of 
conversation  ;  and  when  he  took  a  late  farewell,  after  a  long 
rubber,  Mr.  Dombey  again  complimented  the  blushing  Miss 
Tox  on  her  neighbor  and  acquaintance. 

But  all  the  way  home  to  iiis  own  hotel,  the  Major  inces- 
santly said  to  himself,  and  of  himself,  "  bly,  Sir — sly,  Sir — dc* 


THE  MIDSHIPMAN'S  DISASTER 


12^ 


vil-ish  sly !  "  And  when  he  got  there,  sat  down  in  a  chair,  and 
fell  into  a  silent  fit  of  laughter,  with  which  he  was  sometimes 
seized,  and  which  was  always  particularly  awful.  It  held  him 
so  long  on  this  occasion  that  the  dark  servant,  who  stood  watch- 
ing him  at  a  distance,  but  dared  not  for  his  life  approach,  twice 
or  thrice  gave  him  over  for  lost.  His  whole  form,  but  espe 
cially  his  face  and  head,  dilated  beyond  all  former  experience  ; 
and  presented  to  the  dark  man's  view,  nothing  but  a  heavy 
mass  of  indigo.  At  length  he  burst  into  a  violent  paroxysm  of 
coughing,  and  when  that  was  a  little  better  burst  into  such 
ejaculations  as  the  following  : 

"  Would  you,  Ma'am,  would  you  ?  Mrs,  Dombey,  eh, 
Ma'am  ?  I  think  not,  Ma'am.  Not  while  Joe  B.  can  put  a 
spoke  in  your  wheel,  Ma'am.  J.  B.'s  even  with  you  now, 
Ma'am.  He  isn't  altogether  bowled  out  yet,  Sir,  isn't  Bag- 
stock.  She's  deep.  Sir,  deep,  but  Josh  is  deeper.  Wide  awake 
is  old  Joe — broad  awake,  and  staring.  Sir!"  There  was  no 
doubt  of  this  last  assertion  being  true,  and  to  a  very  fearful 
extent  ;  as  it  continued  to  be  during  the  greater  part  of  that 
night,  which  the  Major  chiefly  passed  in  similar  exclamations, 
diversified  with  fits  of  coughing  and  choking  that  startled  the 
whole  house. 

It  was  on  the  day  after  this  occasion  (being  Sunday)  when, 
as  Mr.  Dombey,  Mrs.  Chick,  and  Miss  Tox  were  sitting  at 
breakfast,  still  eulogising  the  Major,  Florence  came  running  in  : 
her  face  suffused  with  a  bright  color,  and  her  eyes  sparkling 
joyfully :  and  cried, 

"  Papa  !  Papa  !     Here's  Walter  !  and  he  won't  come  in." 

"  Who  ?  "  cried  Mr.  Dombey.  "  What  does  she  mean  ? 
What  is  this  ?  " 

"  Walter,  Papa  !  "  said  Florence  timidly  ;  sensible  of  hav- 
ing approached  the  presence  with  too  much  familiarity.  "  Who 
found  me  when  I  was  lost." 

"  Does  she  mean  young  Gay,  Louisa  ?  "  inquired  Mr.  Dom- 
bey, knitting  his  brows.  "  Really,  this  child's  manners  have 
become  very  boisterous  She  cannot  mean  young  Gay,  I  think. 
See  what  it  is,  will  you.  ' 

Mrs.  Chick  hurried  into  the  passage,  and  returned  with  the 
information  that  it  was  young  Gay,  accompanied  by  a  very 
strange-looking  person  ;  and  that  young  Gay  said  he  would  not 
take  the  liberty  of  coming  in,  hearing  Mr.  Dombey  was  at 
breakfast,  but  would  wait  until  Mr.  Dombey  should  signify  that 
he  might  approach. 

"  Tell  the  boy  to  come  in  now,"  said  Mr.  Dombey.    "  Now 


Ud 


nOMBEY  AND  SOM 


Cay,  what  is  the  matter?  Who  sent  you  down  here?  Was 
there  nobody  else  to  come  ?  " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Sir,"  returned  Walter.  "  I  have  not 
been  sent.  I  ha\e  been  so  bold  as  to  come  on  my  own  account, 
which  I  hope  you'll  pardon  when  I  mention  the  cause." 

But  Mr.  Dombey,  without  attending  to  what  he  said,  was 
looking  impatiently  on  either  side  of  him  (as  if  he  were  a  pillar 
in  his  way)  at  some  object  behind. 

"  What's  that .?  "  said  Mr.  Dombey.  "  Who  is  that  ?  I 
think  you  have  made  some  mistake  in  the  door,  Sir." 

"  Oh,  I'm  very  sorry  to  intrude  with  any  one,  Sir,"  cried 
Walter,  hastily  •  "  but  this  is — this  is  Captain  Cuttle,  Sir." 

"  Wal'r,  my  lad,"  observed  the  Captain  in  a  deep  voice, 
"  stand  by  !  " 

At  the  same  time  the  Captain,  coming  a  little  further  in, 
brought  out  his  wide  suit  of  blue,  his  conspicuous  shirt-collar, 
and  his  knobby  nose  in  full  relief,  and  stood  bowing  to  Mr. 
Dombey,  and  waving  his  hook  politely  to  the  ladies,  with  the 
hard  glazed  hat  in  his  one  hand,  and  a  red  equator  round  his 
head  which  it  had  newly  imprinted  there. 

Mr.  Dombey  regarded  this  phenomenon  with  amazement 
and  indignation,  and  seemed  by  his  looks  to  appeal  to  Mrs. 
Chick  and  Miss  To.x  against  it.  Little  Paul,  who  had  come  in 
after  Florence,  backed  towards  Miss  Tox  as  the  Captain  waved 
his  hook,  and  stood  on  the  defensive. 

"  Now,  Gay,"  said  Mr.  Dombey.  "  What  have  you  got  to 
say  to  me  ?  " 

Again  the  Captain  observed,  as  a  general  opening  of  the 
conversation  that  could  not  fail  to  propitiate  all  parties,  "  Wal'r, 
stand  by  !  " 

'*  I  am  afraid.  Sir,"  began  Walter,  trembling,  and  looking 
down  at  the  ground,  "  that  I  take  a  very  great  liberty  in  com- 
ing— indeed,  1  am  sure  I  do.  I  should  hardly  have  had  the  cour- 
age to  ask  to  see  you.  Sir,  even  after  coming  down,  1  am  afraid, 
if  I  had  not  overtaken  Miss  Dombey,  and  " — 

"Well !  "  said  Mr.  Dombey,  following  his  eyes  as  he  glanced 
at  the  attentive  Florence,  and  frowning  unconsciously  as  she 
encouraged  him  with  a  smile.     "  Go  on,  if  you  please." 

"Ay,  ay,"  observed  the  Captain,  considering  it  incum- 
bent on  him,  as  a  point  of  good  breeding,  to  support  Mr.  Dom- 
bey.    "  Well  said  !     Go  on,  Wal'r." 

Captain  Cuttle  ought  to  have  been  withered  by  the  look 
which  Mr.  Dombey  bestowed  upon  liiin  in  acknowledgment  o£ 
iiis  patronage.     But  quite  innocent  of  tliis,  he  closed  one  eye 


THE  MWStllPMAN'S  DISASTER.  i^\ 

ill  reply,  and  gave  Mr.  Dombey  to  understand  by  certain  sig- 
nificant motions  of  liis  liook,  that  vValter  was  a  little  bashful 
at  first,  and  might  be  expected  to  come  out  shortly. 

"  It  is  entirely  a  private  and  personal  matter,  that  has 
brought  me  here,  Sir,"  continued  Walter,  faltering,  "and  Cap' 
tain  Cuttle — " 

"  Here  !  "  interposed  the  Captain,  as  an  assurance  that  he 
was  at  hand,  and  might  be  relied  upon. 

"  Who  is  a  very  old  friend  of  my  poor  uncle's,  and  a  most 
excellent  man,  Sir,"  pursued  Walter,  raising  his  eyes  with  a 
look  of  entreaty  in  the  Captain's  behalf,  "  was  so  good  as  to 
offer  to  come  with  me,  which  I  could  hardly  refuse." 

"  No,  no,  no,"  observed  the  Captain  complacently,  "  Of 
course  not.     No  call  for  refusing.     Go  on,  Wal'r." 

"  And  therefore.  Sir,"  said  Walter,  venturing  to  meet  Mr. 
Dombey's  eye,  and  proceeding  with  better  courage  in  the  very 
desperation  of  the  case,  now  that  there  was  no  avoiding  it, 
"  therefore  I  have  come,  with  him,  Sir,  to  say  that  my  poor  old 
uncle  is  in  very  great  affliction  and  distress.  That,  through 
the  gradual  loss  of  his  business,  and  not  being  able  to  make  a 
payment,  the  apprehension  of  which  has  weighed  very  heavily 
upon  his  mind,  months  and  months,  as  indeed  I  know.  Sir, 
he  has  an  execution  in  his  house,  and  is  in  danger  of  losing  all 
he  has,  and  breaking  his  heart.  And  that  if  you  would,  in 
your  kindness,  and  in  your  old  knowledge  of  him  as  a  respect- 
able man,  do  anything  to  help  him  out  of  his  difficulty.  Sir,  we 
never  could  thank  you  enough  for  it." 

Walter's  eyes  filled  with  tears  as  he  spoke ;  and  so  did  those 
of  Florence.  Her  father  saw  them  glistening,  though  he  ap- 
peared  to  look  at  Walter  only. 

"  It  is  a  very  large  sum,  Sir,"  said  Walter,  "  More  than 
three  hundred  pounds.  My  uncle  is  quite  beaten  down  by  his 
misfortune,  it  lies  so  heavy  on  him  ;  and  is  quite  unable  to  do 
anything  for  his  own  relief.  He  doesn't  even  know  yet,  that 
I  have  come  to  speak  to  you.  You  would  wish  me  to  say.  Sir," 
added  Walter,  after  a  moment's  hesitation,  "  exactly  what  it  is 
I  want,  I  really  don't  know.  Sir,  There  is  my  uncle's  stock, 
on  which  I  believe  I  may  say,  confidently,  there  are  no  other  de- 
mands, and  there  is  Captain  Cuttle,  who  would  wish  to  be  se- 
curity too,  I — I  hardly  like  to  mention,"  said  Walter,  "  such 
earnings  as  mine  ;  but  if  you  would  allow  them — accumulate — 
payment — advance — uncle — frugal,  honorable,  old  man."  Wal- 
ter trailed  off,  through  these  broken  sentences,  into  silence  i 
and  stood,  with  downcast  head,  before  his  employer. 


,32  r>OMBJSV  AND  SOM 

Considering  this  a  favorable  moment  for  the  display  of  the 
valuables,  Captain  Cuttle  advanced  to  the  table  ;  and  clearing 
a  space  among  the  breakfast-cups  at  Mr.  Dombey's  elbow,  pro- 
duced ihe  silver  watch,  the  ready  money,  the  teaspoons,  and 
the  sugar-tongs  ;  and  piling  them  up  into  a  heap  that  they  might 
look  as  precious  as  possible,  delivered  himself  of  these  words : 

"  Half  a  loaf's  better  than  no  bread,  and  the  same  remark 
holds  good  with  crumbs.  There's  a  few.  Annuity  of  one  hun- 
dred pound  prannum  also  ready  to  be  made  over.  If  there  is 
a  man  chock  full  of  science  in  the  world,  it's  old  Sol  Gills.  If 
there  is  a  lad  of  promise — one  flowing,"  added  the  Captain,  in 
one  of  his  happy  quotations,  "  with  milk  and  honey — it's  his 
nevy ! " 

The  Captain  then  withdrew  to  his  former  place,  where  he 
stood  arranging  his  scattered  locks  with  the  air  of  a  man  who 
liad  given  the  finishing  touch  to  a  difficult  performance. 

When  Walter  ceased  to  speak,  Mr.  Dombey's  eyes  were  at- 
tracted to  little  Paul,  who  seeing  his  sister  hanging  down  her 
head  and  silently  weeping  in  her  commiseration  for  the  distress 
she  had  heard  described,  went  over  to  her,  and  tried  to  comfort 
her :  looking  at  Walter  and  his  father  as  he  did  so,  with  a  very 
expressive  face.  After  the  momentary  distraction  of  Captain 
Cuttle's  address,  which  he  regarded  with  lofty  indifference,  Mr. 
Dombey  again  turned  his  eyes  upon  his  son,  and  sat  steadily 
regarding  the  child,  for  some  moments,  in  silence. 

"  What  was  this  debt  contracted  for  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Dombey, 
at  length.     "  Who  is  the  creditor  ?  " 

"  He  don't  know,"  replied  the  Captain,  putting  his  hand  on 
Walter's  shoulder.  "  I  do.  It  came  of  helping  a  man  that's 
dead  now,  and  that's  cost  my  friend  Gills  many  a  hundred 
pound  already.     More  particulars  in  private,  if  agreeable." 

"People  who  have  enough  to  do  to  hold  their  own  way," 
said  Mr,  Dombey,  unobservant  of  the  Captain's  mysterious 
signs  behind  Walter,  and  still  looking  at  his  son,  "  had  better 
be  content  with  their  own  obligations  and  difficulties,  and  not 
increase  them  by  engaging  for  other  men.  It  is  an  act  of  dis- 
honesty and  presumption,  too,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  sternly ; 
"  great  presumption  ;  for  the  wealthy  could  do  no  more.  Paul, 
come  here !  " 

The  child  obeyed  :  and  Mr.  Dombey  took  him  on  his  knee. 

"  If  you  had  money  now — "  said  Mr.  Dombey.  '*  Look  at 
me  !  " 

Paul,  whose  eyes  had  wandered  to  his  sister,  and  to  Walter, 
looked  his  fatker  i.i  th**  Tace. 


I 


THE  MIDSHIPMAN'S  DISASTER 


^IZ 


If  you  had  money  now,"  said  Mr.  Dombey  ;  "  as  much 
ynoney  as  young  Gay  has   talked  about  ;  what  would  you  do  ?  " 

"  Give  it  to  his  old  uncle,"  returned  Paul. 

"Lend  it  to  his  old  uncle,  eh  .'' "  retorted  Mr.  Dombey. 
■^  Well !  When  you  are  old  enough,  you  know,  you  will  share 
tny  money,  and  we  shall  use  it  together." 

"  Dombey  and  Son,"  interrupted  Paul,  who  had  been  tutored 
early  in  the  phrase. 

"  Dombey  and  Son,"  repeated  his  father.  "  Would  you  like 
to  begin  to  be  Dombey  and  Son,  now,  and  lend  this  money  to 
young  Gay's  uncle  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  if  you  please.  Papa !  "  said  Paul :  "  and  so  would 
Florence." 

"Girls,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "  have  nothing  to  do  with  Dom' 
bey  and  Son.     Would  you  like  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Papa,  yes  !  " 

"Then  you  shall  do  it,"  returned  his  father.  "And  you 
see,  Paul,"  he  added,  dropping  his  voice,  "how  powerful  money 
is,  and  how  anxious  people  are  to  get  it.  Young  Gay  comes 
all  this  way  to  beg  for  money,  and  you,  who  are  so  grand  and 
great,  having  got  it,  are  going  to  let  him  have  it,  as  a  great  favor 
and  obligation." 

Paul  turned  up  the  old  face  for  a  moment,  in  which  there 
was  a  sharp  understanding  of  the  reference  conveyed  in  these 
words  :  but  it  was  a  young  and  childish  face  immediately  after- 
wards, when  he  slipped  down  from  his  father's  knee,  and  ran  to 
tell  Florence  not  to  cry  any  more,  for  he  was  going  to  let  young 
Gay  have  the  money. 

Mr.  Dombey  then  turned  to  a  side-table,  and  wrote  a  note 
und  sealed  it.  During  the  interval,  Paul  and  Florence  whis- 
pered to  Walter,  and  Captain  Cuttle  beamed  on  the  three,  with 
such  aspiring  and  ineffably  presumptuous  thoughts  as  Mr.  Dom- 
bey never  could  have  believed  in.  The  note  being  finished, 
Mr.  Dombey  turned  round  to  his  former  place,  and  held  it  out 
to  Walter. 

"Give  that,"  he  said,  "  the  first  thing  to-morrow  morning, 
to  Mr.  Carker.  He  will  immediately  take  care  that  one  of  my 
people  releases  your  uncle  from  his  loresent  position,  by  paying 
the  amount  at  issue  ;  and  that  such  arrangements  are  made  for 
its  repayment  as  may  be  consistent  with  your  uncle's  circum- 
stances. You  will  consider  that  this  is  done  for  you  by  Master 
Paul." 

Walter,  in  the  emotion  of  holding  in  his  hand  the  means  of 
releasing  his  good  unple  frpiri  his  trouble,  would  have  endeavored 


"54 


DOMPyEY  AND  SOSr. 


lo  express  something  of  his  gratitude  and  joy.  But  Mr.  Dom- 
bey  stopped  him  short. 

"  You  will  consider  that  it  is  done,"  he  repeated,  "by  Master 
Paul.  I  have  explained  that  to  him,  and  he  understands  it.  I 
wish  no  more  to  be  said." 

As  he  motioned  towards  the  door,  Walter  could  only  bow 
his  head  and  retire.  Miss  To.v,  seeing  that  the  Captain  ap- 
peared about  to  do  the  same,  interposed. 

"  My  dear  Sir,"  she  said,  addressing  Mr.  Dombey,  at  whose 
munificence  both  she  and  ]\Irs.  Chick  were  shedding  tears  co- 
piously ;  "I  think  you  have  overlooked  something.  Pardon 
me,  Mr.  Dombey,  I  think,  in  the  nobility  of  your  character,  and 
its  exalted  scope,  you  have  omitted  a  matter  of  detail." 

"  Indeed,  Miss  Tox  !  "  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"The  gentleman  with  the  Instrument,"  pursued  Miss 

Tox,  glancing  at  Captain  Cuttle,  "  has  left  upon  the  table,  at 
your  elbow " 

"  Good  Heaven  !  "  said  Mr.  Dombey,  sweeping  the  Cap- 
tain's property  from  him,  as  if  it  were  so  much  crumb  indeed. 
"  Take  these  things  away.  I  am  obliged  to  you.  Miss  Tox  ;  it 
is  like  your  usual  discretion.  Have  the  goodness  to  take  these 
things  away.  Sir  !  " 

Captain  Cuttle  felt  he  had  no  alternative  but  to  comply.  But 
he  was  so  much  struck  by  the  magnanimity  of  Mr.  Dombey,  in 
refusing  treasures  lying  heaped  up  to  his  hand,  that  when  he  had 
deposited  the  teaspoons  and  sugar-tongs  in  one  pocket,  and  the 
ready  money  in  another,  and  had  lowered  the  great  watch  down 
slowly  into  its  proper  vault,  he  could  not  refrain  from  seizing 
that  gentleman's  right  hand  in  his  own  solitary  left,  and  w-hile 
he  held  it  open  with  his  powerful  fingers,  bringing  the  hook 
down  upon  its  palm  in  a  transport  of  admiration.  At  this 
touch  of  warm  feeling  and  cold  iron,  Mr.  Dombey  shivered  all 
over. 

Captain  Cuttle  then  kissed  his  hook  to  the  ladies  several 
times,  with  great  elegance  and  gallantry  ;  and  having  taken  a 
particular  leave  of  Paul  and  Florence,  accompanied  Walter  out 
of  the  room.  Florence  was  running  after  them  in  the  earnest- 
ness of  her  heart,  to  send  some  message  to  old  Sol,  when  Mr. 
Dombey  called  her  back,  and  bade  her  stay  where  she  was 

"  Will  you  ncvc}-  be  a  Dombey,  my  dear  child  ! "  said  Mrs. 
Chick,  with  pathetic  rcproachfulness. 

"  Dear  Aunt,"  said  h'lorence.  "  Don't  be  angry  with  me. 
I  am  so  thankful  to  Papa  !  " 

She  would  have  run  and  thrown  her  arms  about  his  neck  if 


THE  MlDSIlIi'MAN'S  DISASTER. 


n% 


she  had  dared  ;  but  as  she  did  not  dare,  she  glanced  with 
thankful  eyes  towards  him,  as  he  sat  musing ;  sometimes  be- 
stowing an  uneasy  glance  on  her,  but,  for  the  most  part,  watch- 
ing Paul,  who  walked  about  the  room  with  the  new-blown  dig- 
nity of  having  let  young  Gay  have  the  money. 

And  young  Gay— Walter — what  of  him  ? 

He  was  overjoyed  to  purge  the  old  man's  heart  frombailiflfs 
and  brokers,  and  to  hurry  back  to  his  uncle  with  the  good  tid- 
ings. He  was  overjoyed  to  have  it  all  arranged  and  settled 
next  day  before  noon  ;  and  to  sit  down  at  evening  in  the  little 
back  parlor  with  old  Sol  and  Captain  Cuttle  ;  and  to  see  the 
instrument-maker  already  reviving,  and  hopeful  for  the  future, 
and  feeling  that  the  wooden  midshipman  was  his  own  again. 
But  without  the  least  impeachment  of  his  gratitude  to  Mr. 
Dombey,  it  must  be  confessed  that  Walter  was  humbled  and 
cast  down.  It  is  when  our  budding  hopes  are  nipped  beyond 
recovery  by  some  rough  wind,  that  we  are  the  most  disposed 
to  picture  to  ourselves  what  flowers  they  might  have  borne,  if 
they  had  flourished ;  and  now,  when  Walter  felt  himself  cut  off 
from  that  great  Dombey  height,  by  the  depth  of  a  new  and 
terrible  tumble,  and  felt  that  all  his  old  wild  fancies  had  been 
scattered  to  the  winds  in  the  fall,  he  began  to  suspect  that 
they  might  have  led  him  on  to  harmless  visions  of  aspirmg  to 
Florence  in  the  remote  distance  of  time. 

The  Captain  viewed  the  subject  in  quite  a  different  light. 
He  appeared  to  entertain  a  belief  that  the  interview  at  which 
he  had  assisted  was  so  very  satisfactory  and  encouraging,  as  to 
be  only  a  step  or  two  removed  from  a  regular  betrothal  of 
Florence  to  Walter ;  and  that  the  late  transaction  had  im- 
mensely forwarded,  if  not  thoroughly  established,  the  Whit- 
tingtonian  hopes.  Stimulated  by  this  conviction,  and  by  the 
improvement  in  the  sjDirits  of  his  old  friend,  and  by  his  own 
consequent  gayety,  he  even  attempted,  in  favoring  them  with 
the  ballad  of"  Lovely  Peg  "  for  the  third  time  in  one  evening,  to 
make  -^w  extemporaneous  substitution  of  the  name  "  Florence  ; " 
but  finding  this  difficult,  on  account  of  the  word  Peg  invariably 
rhyming  to  leg  (in  which  personal  beauty  the  original  was  de- 
scribed as  having  excelled  all  competitors),  he  hit  upon  the 
happy  thought  of  changing  it  to  Fie — e — eg  ;  which  he  accord- 
ingly did,  with  an  archness  almost  supernatural,  and  a  voice 
quite  vociferous,  notwithstanding  that  the  time  was  close  at 
hand  when  he  must  seek  the  abode  of  the  dreadful  Mrs.  Mac- 
Stinger. 


1^6  DOMBEV  AND  SON, 


CHAPTER  XL 
Paul's  introduction  to  a  new  scene. 

Mrs.  Pipchin's  constitution  was  made  of  such  hard  metal, 
in  spite  of  its  liability  to  the  fleshly  weaknesses  of  standing  in 
need  of  repose  after  chops,  and  of  requiring  to  be  coaxed  to 
sleep  by  the  soporific  agency  of  sweetbreads,  that  it  utterly  set 
at  naught  the  predictions  of  Mrs.  Wickam,  and  showed  no 
symptoms  of  decline.  Yet,  as  Paul's  rapt  interest  in  the  old 
lady  continued  unabated,  Mrs.  Wickam  would  not  budge  an 
inch  from  the  position  she  had  taken  up.  Fortifying  and  en- 
trenching herself  on  the  strong  ground  of  her  uncle's  Betsey 
Jane,  she  advised  Miss  Berry,  as  a  friend,  to  prepare  herself 
for  the  worst ;  and  forewarned  her  that  her  aunt  might,  at  any 
time,  be  expected  to  go  off  suddenly,  like  a  powder-mill. 

Poor  Berry  took  it  all  in  good  part,  and  drudged  and  slaved 
away  as  usual ;  perfectly  convinced  that  Mrs.  Pipchin  was  one 
of  the  most  meritorious  persons  in  the  world,  and  making  every 
day  innumerable  sacrifices  of  herself  upon  the  altar  of  that 
noble  old  woman.  But  all  these  immolations  of  Berry  were 
somehow  carried  to  the  credit  of  IMrs.  Pipchin  by  Mrs.  Pip- 
chin's  friends  and  admirers  ;  and  were  made  to  harmonize 
with,  and  carry  out,  that  melancholy  fact  of  the  deceased  Mr. 
Pipchin  having  broken  his  heart  in  the  Peruvian  mines. 

For  example,  there  was  an  honest  grocer  and  general  dealer 
in  the  retail  line  of  business,  betweet?  whom  and  Mrs.  Pipchin 
there  was  a  small  memorandum  book,  with  a  greasy  red  cover, 
perpetually  in  question,  and  concerning  which  divers  secret 
councils  and  confL^rences  were  continually  being  held  between 
the  parties  to  the  register,  on  the  mat  in  the  passage,  and  with 
closed  doors  in  the  parlor.  Nor  were  there  wanting  dark 
hints  from  Master  Bitherstone  (whose  temper  had  been  made 
revengeful  by  the  solar  heats  of  India  acting  on  his  blood),  of 
balances  unsettled,  and  of  a  failure,  on  one  occasion  within  his 
memory,  in  the  supply  of  moist  sugar  at  tea-time.  This  grocer 
being  a  bachelor,  and  not  a  man  who  looked  upon  the  surface 
for  beauty,  had  once  made  honorable  offers  for  the  hand  of 
Berry,  which  Mrs.  Pipchin  had,  with  contumely  and  scorn,  re- 
jected.    Everybody  said  how  laudable  this  was  in  Mrs.  Pipchin, 


PAUVS  INTRODUCTION  TO  A  NEW  SCENE. 


'37 


relict  of  a  man  who  had  died  of  the  Peruvian  mines  ;  and  what 
a  staunch,  high,  independent  spirit  the  old  lady  had.  But 
nobody  said  anything  about  poor  Berry,  who  cried  for  six  weeks 
(being  soundly  rated  by  her  good  aunt  all  the  time),  and  lapsed 
into  a  state  of  hopeless  spinsterhood. 

"  Berry's  very  fond  of  you,  ain't  she  ?  "  Paul  once  asked 
Mrs.  Pipchin  when  they  were  sitting  by  the  fire  with  the  cat. 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Pipchin. 

"  Why  ?  "  asked  Paul. 

"  Why  !  "  returned  the  disconcerted  old  lady.  "  How  can 
you  ask  such  things,  Sir !  why  are  you  fond  of  your  sister 
Florence  ?  " 

"Because  she's  very  good,"  said  Paul.  "There's  nobody 
like  Florence." 

"  Well  !  "  retorted  Mrs.  Pipchin,  shortly,  "  and  there's  no- 
body like  me,  I  suppose." 

"  Ain't  there  really  though  ?  "  asked  Paul,  leaning  forward 
in  his  chair,  and  looking  at  her  very  hard. 

"  No,"  said  the  old  lady. 

"I  am  glad  of  that,"  observed  Paul,  rubbing  his  hands 
thoughtfully.     "  That's  a  very  good  thing." 

Mrs.  Pipchin  didn't  dare  to  ask  him  why,  lest  she  should 
receive  some  perfectly  annihilating  answer.  But  as  a  compen- 
sation to  her  wounded  feelings,  she  harassed  Master  Either- 
stone  to  that  extent  until  bed-time,  that  he  began  that  very 
night  to  make  arrangements  for  an  overland  return  to  India, 
by  secreting  from  his  supper  a  quarter  of  a  round  of  bread  and 
a  fragment  of  moist  Dutch  cheese,  as  the  beginning  of  a  stock 
of  provision  to  support  him  on  the  voyage. 

Mrs.  Pipchin  had  kept  watch  and  ward  over  little  Paul  and 
his  sister  for  nearly  twelve  months.  They  had  been  home 
twice,  but  only  for  a  few  days  ;  and  had  been  constant  in  their 
weekly  visits  to  Mr.  Dombey  at  the  hotel.  By  little  and 
little  Paul  had  grown  stronger,  and  had  become  able  to  dispense 
with  his  carriage  :  though  he  still  looked  thin  and  delicate  ; 
and  still  remained  the  same  old,  quiet,  dreamy  child  that  he 
had  been  when  first  consigned  to  Mrs.  Pipchin's  care.  One 
Saturday  afternoon,  at  dusk,  great  consternation  was  occasioned 
in  the  castle  by  the  unlooked-for  announcement  of  Mr.  Dombey 
as  a  visitor  to  Mrs.  Pipchin.  The  population  of  the  parlor  was 
immediately  swept  up  stairs  as  on  the  wings  of  a  whirlwind, 
and  after  much  slammmg  of  bedroom  doors,  and  trampling 
overhead,  and  some  knocking  about  of  Master  Bitherstone  by 
Mrs,  Pipchin,  as  a  relief  to  the  perturbation  of  her  spirits,  the 


j^g  DO.VPF.Y  AXD  son: 

black  bombazine  garmenls  of  the  worthy  old  lady  darkened  th* 
audience-chamber  where  Mr.  Dombey  was  contemplating  the 
vacant  arm-chair  of  his  son  and  heir. 

"  Mrs.  Pipchin,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "  liow  do  you  do  ?  " 

"  Thank  you  Sir,"  said  Mrs.  Pipchin,  "  I  am  pretty  well 
considering." 

Mrs.  Pipchin  always  used  that  form  of  woids.  It  meant, 
considering  her  virtues,  sacrifices,  and  so  forth. 

"  I  can't  expect,  Sir,  to  be  very  well,"  said  Mrs.  Pipchin, 
taking  a  chair,  and  fetching  her  breath ;  "  but  such  health  as  I 
have,  I  am  grateful  for," 

Mr.  Dombey  inclined  his  head  with  the  satisfied  air  of  a 
patron,  who  felt  that  this  was  the  sort  of  thing  for  which  he 
paid  so  much  a  quarter.  After  a  moment's  silence  he  went  on 
to  say  : 

"Mrs.  Pipchin,  I  have  taken  the  liberty  of  callmg,_to 
consult  you  in  reference  to  my  son.  I  have  had  it  in  my  mind 
to  do  so  for  some  time  past  ;  but  have  deferred  it  from  time  to 
time,  in  order  that  his  health  might  be  thoroughly  re-established. 
You  have  no  misgivings  on  that  subject,  Mrs.  Pipchin  ?  " 

"  Brighton  has  proved  very  beneficial.  Sir,"  returned  Mrs. 
Pipchin.     "  Very  beneficial,  indeed." 

"  I  purpose,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "  his  remaining  at 
Brighton." 

Mrs.  Pipchin  rubbed  her  hands,  and  bent  her  gray  eyes  on 
the  fire. 

"  But,"  pursued  Mr.  Dombey,  stretching  out  his  forefinger, 
"  but  possibly  that  he  should  now  make  a  change,  and  lead  a 
different  kind  of  life  here.  In  short,  Mrs.  Pipchin,  that  is  the 
object  of  my  visit.  My  son  is  getting  on,  Mrs.  Pipchin. 
Keally  he  is  getting  on." 

There  was  something  melancholy  in  the  triumphant  air  with 
which  Mr.  Dombey  said  this.  It  showed  how  long  Paul's 
childish  life  had  been  to  him,  and  how  his  hopes  were  set  upon 
a  later  stage  of  his  existence.  Pity  may  appear  a  strange  word 
to  connect  with  any  one  so  haughty  and  so  cold,  and  yet  he 
seemed  a  worthy  subject  for  it  at  that  moment. 

"Six  years  old  !  "  said  Mr.  Dombey,  settling  his  neckcloth 
— perhaps  to  hide  an  irrepressible  smile  tliat  rather  seemed  to 
strike  upon  the  surface  of  liis  face  and  glance  away,  as  finding 
no  resting-place,  than  to  play  there  for  an  instant.  "  Dear  me, 
six  will  be  changed  to  sixteen,  before  we  have  time  look  about 
us." 

"  Ten   years,"  croaked  the  unsympathetic   Pipchin,  with  a 


PAUL'S  INTRODUCTIOiV  TO  A  NEW  SCENE. 


'39 


frosty  glistening  of  her  hard  gray  eye,  and  a  dreary  shaking  of 
her  bent  head,  "  is  a  long  time." 

"  It  depends  on  circumstances,"  returned  Mr.  Dombey  ;  "  at 
all  events,  Mrs.  Pipchin,  my  son  is  six  years  old,  and  there  is 
no  doubt,  I  fear,  that  in  his  studies  he  is  behind  many 
children  of  his  age — or  his  youth,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  quickly 
answering  what  he  mistrusted  was  a  shrewd  twinkle  of  the 
frosty  eye,  "  his  youth  is  a  more  appropriate  expression.  Now, 
Mrs.  Pipchin,  instead  of  being  behind  his  peers,  my  son  ought 
to  be  before  them  ;  far  before  them.  There  is  an  eminence  ready 
for  him  to  mount  upon.  There  is  nothing  of  chance  or  doubt  in 
the  course  before  ray  son.  His  way  in  life  was  clear  and  prepared, 
and  marked  out  before  he  existed.  The  education  of  such  a 
young  gentleman  must  not  be  delayed.  It  must  not  be  left  im- 
perfect. It  must  be  very  steadily  and  seriously  undertaken 
Mrs.  Pipchin." 

'*  Well,  Sir,"  said  Mrs.  Pipchin,  "  I  can  say  nothing  to  the 
contrary." 

"  I  was  quite  sure,  Mrs.  Pipchin,"  returned  Mr.  Dombey, 
approvingly,  "  that  a  person  of  your  good  sense  could  not,  and 
would  not." 

"There  is  a  great  deal  of  nonsense — and  worse — talked 
about  young  people  not  being  pressed  too  hard  at  first,  and 
being  tempted  on,  and  all  the  rest  of  it,  Sir,"  said  Mrs.  Pipchin, 
impatiently  rubbing  her  hooked  nose.  "  It  never  was  thought 
of  in  my  time,  and  it  has  no  business  to  be  thought  of  now. 
My  opinion  is  '  keep  'em  at  it.'  " 

"  My  good  madam,"  returned  Mr.  Dombey,  "  you  have  not 
acquired  your  reputation  undeservedly ;  and  I  beg  you  to 
believe,  Mrs.  Pipchin,  that  I  am  more  than  satisfied  with  your 
excellent  system  of  management,  and  shall  have  the  greatest 
pleasure  in  commending  it  whenever  my  poor  commendation  " 
— Mr.  Dombey's  loftiness  when  he  affected  to  disparage  his 
own  importance,  passed  all  bounds — "  can  be  of  any  service. 
I  have  been  thinking  of  Doctor  Blimber's,  Mrs.  Pipchin." 

"  My  neighbor,  Sir  ?  "  said  Mrs,  Pipchin.  "  I  believe  the 
Doctor's  is  an  excellent  establishment,  I've  heard  that  it's 
very  strictly  conducted,  and  there  is  nothing  but  learning  going 
on  from  morning  to  night." 

"And  it's  very  expensive,"  added  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  And  it's  very  expensive.  Sir,"  returned  Mrs.  Pipchin, 
catching  at  the  fact,  as  if  in  omitting  that,  she  had  omitted  one 
Vof  its  leading  merits. 

"  I  have  had  some  communication  with  the  Doctor,  Mrs. 


I40 


DOM  BEY  AXD  SON". 


Pipchin,"  said  Mr.  Dombey  hitching,  his  cliair  anxiously  a  little 
nearer  to  the  fire,  "  and  he  does  not  consider  I'aul  at  all  too 
young  for  his  purpose.  He  mentioned  several  instances  of 
boys  in  Greek  at  about  the  same  age.  If  I  have  any  little 
uneasiness  in  my  own  mind,  Mrs.  Pipchin,  on  the  subject  of 
this  change,  it  is  not  on  that  head.  My  son  not  having  known 
a  mother  has  gradually  concentrated  much — too  much — of  his 
childish  affection  on  his  sister.  Whether  their  separation — " 
Mr.  Dombey  said  no  more,  but  sat  silent. 

"  Hoity-toity !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Pipchin,  shaking  out  her 
black  bombazine  skirts,  and  plucking  up  all  the  ogress  within 
her.  "If  she  don't  like  it,  Mr.  Dombey,  she  must  be  taught  to 
lump  it."  The  good  lady  apol  ^gized  immediately  afterwards 
for  using  so  common  a  figure  of  speech,  but  said  (and  truly) 
that  that  was  the  way  s/tc  reasoned  with  'em. 

Mr.  Dombey  waited  until  Mrs.  Pipchin  had  done  bridling 
and  shaking  her  head,  and  frowning  down  a  legion  of  Bither- 
stones  and  Pankeys ;  and  then  said  quietly,  but  correctively. 
"He,  my  good  madam,  he." 

Mrs.  Pipchin's  system  would  have  applied  very  much  the 
same  mode  of  cure  to  any  uneasiness  on  the  part  of  Paul,  too  ; 
but  as  the  hard  gray  eye  was  sharp  enough  to  see  that  the 
recipe,  however  Mr.  Dombey  might  admit  its  efficacy  in  the  case 
of  the  daughter,  was  not  a  sovereign  remedy  for  the  son,  she 
argued  the  point ;  and  contended  that  change,  and  new  society, 
and  the  different  form  of  life  he  would  lead  at  Dr.  Blimber's,  and 
the  studies  he  would  have  to  master,  would  very  soon  prove 
sufficient  alienations.  As  this  chimed  in  with  Mr.  Dombey's 
own  hope  and  belief,  it  gave  that  gentleman  a  still  higher 
opinion  of  Mrs.  Pipchin's  understanding  :  and  as  Mrs.  Pipchin, 
at  the  same  time,  bewailed  the  loss  of  her  dear  little  friend 
(which  was  not  an  overwhelming  shock  to  her,  as  she  had  long 
expected  it  and  had  not  looked,  in  the  beginning,  for  his 
'remaining  with  her  longer  than  three  months),  he  formed  an 
equally  good  opinion  of  Mrs.  Pipchin's  disinterestedness.  It 
was  plain  that  he  had  given  the  subject  anxious  consideration, 
for  he  had  formed  a  plan,  which  he  announced  to  the  ogress, 
of  sending  I'aul  to  the  Doctor's  as  a  weekly  boarder  for  the 
first  half  year,  during  which  time  Florence  would  remain  at  the 
castle,  that  she  might  receive  her  brother  there,  on  Saturdays. 
This  would  wean  hiin  by  degrees,  Mr.  Dombey  said  ;  probably 
with  a  recollection  of  his  not  having  been  weaned  by  degrees 
on  a  former  occasion. 

Mr.  Dombey  finished  the  interview  by  expressing  his  hope 


PAUL'S  INTRODUCTION  TO  A  NEW  SCKNli.         141 

that  Mrs.  Plpchin  would  still  remain  in  office  as  general  super- 
intendent and  overseer  of  his  son,  pending  his  studies  at 
Brighton  ;  and  having  kissed  Paul,  and  shaken  hands  with 
Florence,  and  beheld  Master  Bitherstone  in  his  collar  of  state, 
and  made  Miss  Pankey  cry  by  patting  her  on  the  head  (in 
which  region  she  was  uncommonly  tender,  on  account  of  a 
habit  Mrs.  Pipchin  had  of  sounding  it  with  her  knuckles,  like 
a  cask),  he  withdrew  to  his  hotel  and  dinner :  resolved  that 
Paul,  now  that  he  was  getting  so  old  and  well,  should  begin  a 
vigorous  course  of  education  forthwith,  to  qualify  him  for  the 
position  in  which  he  was  to  shine  ;  and  that  Doctor  Blimber 
should  take  him  in  hand  immediately. 

Whenever  a  young  gentleman  was  taken  in  hand  by  Doctor 
Blimber,  he  might  consider  himself  sure  of  a  pretty  tight 
squeeze.  The  doctor  only  undertook  the  charge  of  ten  young 
gentlemen,  but  he  had,  always  ready,  a  supply  of  learning  for 
a  hundred,  on  the  lowest  estimate ;  and  it  was  at  once  the 
business  and  delight  of  his  life  to  gorge  the  unhappy  ten- 
with  it. 

In  fact,  Doctor  Blimber's  establishment  was  a  great  hot- 
house, in  which  there  was  a  forcing  apparatus  incessantly  at 
work.  All  the  boys  blew  before  their  time.  Mental  green- 
peas  were  produced  at  Christmas,  and  intellectual  asparagus  all 
the  year  round.  Mathematical  gooseberries  (very  sour  ones 
too)  were  common  at  untimely  seasons,  and  from  mere  sprouts 
of  bushes,  under  Doctor  Blimber's  cultivation.  P>ery  de- 
scription of  Greek  and  Latin  vegetable  was  got  off  the  driest 
twigs  of  boys,  under  the  frostiest  circumstances.  Nature  was 
of  no  consequence  at  all.  No  matter  what  a  young  gentleman 
was  intended  to  bear.  Doctor  Blimber  made  him  bear  to  pat- 
tern, somehow  or  other. 

This  was  all  very  pleasant  and  ingenious,  but  the  system  of 
forcing  was  attended  with  its  usual  disadvantages.  There  was 
not  the  right  taste  about  the  premature  productions,  and  they 
didn't  keep  well.  Moreover,  one  young  gentleman,  with  a^ 
swollen  nose  and  an  excessively  large  head  (the  oldest  of 
the  ten  who  had  "  gone  through  "  everything),  suddenly  left  off 
blowing  one  day,  and  remained  in  the  establishment  a  mere 
stalk.  And  people  did  say  that  the  Doctor  had  rather  over- 
done it  with  young  Toots,  and  that  when  he  began  to  have 
whiskers  he  left  off  having  brains. 

There  young  Toots  was,  at  any  rate  ,  possessed  of  the 
gruffest  of  voices  and  the  shrillest  of  minds  ;  sticking  orna- 
mental pins  into  his  shirt,  and  keeping  a  ring  in  his  waistcoat 


i4i  30AfBiiy  AA'/y  SO/^. 

pocket  to  put  on  liis  little  finpjer  by  stealth,  when  the  pupils 
went  out  walkhij;  ;  constantly  falling  in  love  by  sight  with 
nurser)'maids,  who  had  no  idea  of  his  existence  ;  and  looking 
at  the  gas-lighted  world  over  the  little  iron  bars  in  the  left-hand 
corner  window  of  the  front  three  pairs  of  stairs,  after  bed-time, 
like  a  greatly  overgrown  cherub  who  had  sat  up  aloft  much  too 
long. 

The  Doctor  was  a  portly  gentleman  in  a  suit  of  black,  with 
strings  at  his  knees,  and  stockings  below  them.  He  had  a 
bald  heail,  highly  polished  ;  a  deep  voice  ;  and  a  chin  so  very 
double,  that  it  was  a  wonder  how  he  ever  managed  to  shave 
into  the  creases.  He  had  likewise  a  pair  of  little  eyes  that 
were  always  half  shut  up,  and  a  mouth  that  was  always  half 
expanded  into  a  grin,  as  if  he  had,  that  moment,  posed  a  boy, 
and  were  waiting  to  convict  him  from  his  own  lips.  Insomuch, 
that  when  the  Doctor  put  his  right  hand  into  the  breast  of  his 
coat,  and  with  his  other  hand  behind  him,  and  a  scarcely  per- 
ceptible wag  of  his  head,  made  the  commonest  observation  to 
a  nervous  stranger,  it  was  like  a  sentiment  from  the  sphynx, 
and  settled  his  business. 

The  Doctor's  was  a  mighty  fine  house,  fronting  the  sea. 
Not  a  joyful  style  of  house  within,  but  quite  the  contran,-. 
Sad-colored  curtains,  whose  proportions  were  spare  and  lean, 
hid  themselves  despondently  behind  the  windows.  The  tables 
and  chairs  were  put  away  in  rows,  like  figures  in  a  sum  :  fires 
were  so  rarely  lighted  in  the  rooms  of  ceremony,  that  they  felt 
like  wells,  and  a  visitor  represented  the  bucket ;  the  dining- 
room  seemed  the  last  place  in  the  world  where  any  eating  or 
drinking  was  likely  to  occur ;  there  was  no  sound  through  all 
the  house  but  the  ticking  of  a  great  clock  in  the  hall,  which 
made  itself  audible  in  the  very  garrets  ;  and  sometimes  a  dull 
crying  of  young  gentlemen  at  their  lessons,  like  the  murmur- 
ings  of  an  assemblage  of  melancholy  pigeons. 

Miss  IJlimber,  too,  although  a  slim  and  graceful  maid,  did 
no  soft  violence  to  the  gravity  of  the  house.  There  was  no 
light  nonsense  about  Miss  Blimber.  She  kept  her  hair  short 
and  crisp,  and  wore  spectacles.  She  was  dry  and  sandy  with 
working  in  the  graves  of  deceased  languages.  None  of  your 
live  languages  for  Miss  Ulimber.  They  must  be  dead — stone 
'dead — and  then  Miss  Blimber  dug  them  up  like  a  Ghoul. 

Mrs.  Blimber,  her  mama,  was  not  learned  herself,  but  she 
pretended  to  be,  and  that  did  quite  as  well.  She  said  at  even- 
ing parties,  that  if  she  could  have  known  Cicero,  she  thouglit 
she  could  have  died  contented.     It  was  the  steady  joy  of  heJ 


Paws  hvmonucTJojV  to  a  new sceA'P. 


143 


lif  ■  to  see  the  Doctor's  young  gentlemen  go  out  walking,  un 
like  all  other  young  gentlemen,  in  the  largest  possible  shirt 
collars,  and  the  stiffest  possible  cravats.  It  was  so  classical, 
she  said. 

As  to  Mr.  Feeder,  B.A.,  Dr.  Blimber's  assistant,  he  was  a 
kind  of  human  barrel-organ,  with  a  little  list  of  tunes  at  which 
he  was  continually  working,  over  and  over  again,  without  any 
variation.  He  might  have  been  fitted  up  with  a  change  of 
barrels,  perhaps,  in  early  life,  if  his  destiny  had  been  favor- 
able ;  but  it  had  not  been ;  and  he  had  only  one,  with  which, 
in  a  monotonous  round,  it  was  his  occupation  to  bewilder  the 
young  ideas  of  Dr.  Blimber's  young  gentlemen.  The  young 
gentlemen  were  prematurely  full  of  carking  anxieties.  They 
knew  no  rest  from  the  pursuit  of  stony-hearted  verbs,  savage 
noun-substantives,  inflexible  syntactic  passages,  and  ghosts  of 
exercises  that  appeared  to  them  in  their  dreams.  Under  the 
forcing  system,  a  young  gentleman  usually  took  leave  of  his 
spirits  in  three  weeks.  He  had  all  the  cares  of  the  world  on  his 
head  in  three  months.  He  conceived  bitter  sentiments  against 
his  parents  or  guardians  in  four ;  he  was  an  old  misanthrope, 
in  five  ;  envied  Curtius  that  blessed  refuge  in  the  earth,  in  six  ; 
and  at  the  end  of  the  first  twelvemonth  had  arrived  at  the  con- 
clusion, from  which  he  never  afterwards  departed,  that  all  the 
fancies  of  the  poets,  and  lessons  of  the  sages,  were  a  mere 
collection  of  words  and  grammar,  and  had  no  other  meaning 
in  the  world. 

But  he  went  on  blow,  blow,  blowing,  in  the  Doctor's  hot- 
house, all  the  time  ;  and  the  Doctor's  glory  and  reputation 
were  great,  when  he  took  his  wintry  growth  home  to  his  rela- 
tions and  friends. 

Upon  the  Doctor's  door-steps  one  da3%  Paul  stood  with  a 
fluttering  heart,  and  with  his  small  right  hand  in  his  father's. 
His  other  hand  was  locked  in  that  of  Florence.  How  tight  the 
tiny  pressure  of  that  one  ;  and  how  loose  and  cold  the  other ! 

Mrs.  Pipchin  hovered  behind  the  victim,  with  her  sable 
plumage  and  her  hooked  beak,  like  a  bird  of  ill-omen.  She 
was  out  of  breath — for  Mr.  Dombey,  full  of  great  thoughts, 
had  walked  fast — and  she  croaked  hoarsely  as  she  waited  for 
the  opening  of  the  door. 

"Now,  Paul,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  exultingly.  "This  is  the 
way  indeed  to  be  Dombey  and  Son,  and  have  money.  You 
are  almost  a  man  already." 

"  Almost,"  returned  the  child. 

Even  his  childish  agitation  could  not  master  the  sly  and 


144 


DOMBEV  AJVD  SCAT. 


quaint  yet  touching  look,  with  which  he  accompanied  tha 
reply. 

It  brought  a  vague  expression  of  dissatisfaction  into  Mr. 
Dombey's  face  ;  but  the  door  being  opened,  it  was  quickly 
gone. 

"  Doctor  Blimber  is  at  home,  I  believe  .?  "  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

The  man  said  yes ;  and  as  they  passed  in,  looked  at  Paul 
as  if  he  were  a  little  mouse,  and  the  house  were  a  trap.  He 
was  a  weak-eyed  young  man,  with  the  first  faint  streaks  or  early 
dawn  of  a  grin  on  his  countenance.  It  was  mere  imbecility; 
but  Mrs.  Pipchin  took  it  into  her  head  that  it  was  impudence, 
and  made  a  snap  at  him  directly. 

"  How  dare  you  laugh  behind  the  gentleman's  back  ? " 
said  Mrs.  Pipchin.     "  And  what  do  you  take  me  for  ?  " 

"  I  ain't  a  laughing  at  nobody,  and  I'm  sure  I  don't  take 
you  for  nothing,  Ma'am,"  returned  the  young  man,  in  conster- 
nation. 

"A  pack  of  idle  dogs  !  "  said  Mrs.  Pipchin,  "  only  fit  to  be 
turnspits.  Go  and  tell  your  master  that  Mr.  Dombey's  here, 
or  it'll  be  worse  for  you  !  " 

The  weak-eyed  young  man  went,  very  meekly,  to  discharge 
himself  of  this  commission  ;  and  soon  came  back  to  invite 
them  to  the  Doctor's  study. 

"  You're  laughing  again.  Sir,"  said  Mrs.  Pipchin,  when  it 
came  to  her  turn,  bringing  up  the  rear,  to  pass  him  in  the  hall. 

"  I  <?///'/,"  returned  the  young  man,  grievously  oppressed. 
"  I  never  see  such  a  thing  as  this  !  " 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Mrs.  Pipchin  ? "  said  Mr.  Dombey, 
looking  round.     "  Softly  !     Pray  !  " 

Mrs.  Pipchin,  in  her  deference,  merely  muttered  at  the 
young  man  as  she  passed  on,  and  said,  "  Oh  !  he  was  a  pre- 
cious fellow  " — leaving  the  young  man,  who  was  all  meekness 
and  incapacity,  affected  even  to  tears  by  the  incident.  But 
Mrs.  Pipchin  had  a  way  of  falling  foul  of  all  meek  people ;  and 
her  friends  said  who  could  wonder  at  it,  after  the  Peruvian 
mines  ! 

The  Doctor  was  sitting  in  his  portentous  study,  with  a  globe 
at  each  knee,  books  all  round  him.  Homer  over  the  door,  and 
Minerva  on  the  mantelshelf.  "And  how  do  you  do,  Sir?"  he 
said  to  Mr.  Dombey  ;  "  and  how  is  my  little  friend  ?  "  Grave 
as  an  organ  was  the  l)octor's  speech  ;  and  when  he  ceased,  the 
great  clock  in  the  hall  seemed  (to  Paul  at  letst)  to  take  him  up, 
and  to  go  on  saying,  "  how,  is,  my,  lit,  tie,  friend  .-•  how,  is,  my, 
lit,  tie,  friend  ? "  over  and  over  and  over  again. 


PAUL'S  INTRODUCTION  TO  A  NEW  SCENE.  i^^ 

The  little  friend  being  something  too  .small  to  be  seen  at  all 
trom  where  the  Doctor  sat,  over  the  books  on  his  table,  the 
Doctor  made  several  futile  attempts  to  get  a  view  of  him  round 
the  legs ;  which  Mr.  Dombey  perceiving,  relieved  the  Doctor 
from  his  embarrassment  by  taking  Paul  up  in  his  arms,  and 
.sitting  him  on  another  little  table  over  against  the  Doctor,  in 
the  middle  of  the  room. 

"  Ha  !  "  said  the  Doctor,  leaning  back  in  his  chair  with  his 
hand  in  his  breast.  "  Now  I  see  my  little  friend.  How  do 
you  do,  my  little  friend  ?  " 

The  clock  in  the  hall  wouldn't  subscribe  to  this  alteration 
in  the  form  of  words,  but  continued  to  repeat  "how,  is,  my,  lit, 
tie,  friend  .-'  how,  is,  my,  lit,  tie,  friend  ?  " 

"  Very  well,  I  thank  j'ou,  Sir,"  returned  Paul,  answering 
the  clock  quite  as  much  as  the  Doctor. 

"  Ha  !  "  said  Doctor  Blimber.  "  Shall  we  make  a  man  of 
him  ? " 

"  Do  you  hear,  Paul  1 "  added  Mr.  Dombey ;  Paul  being 
silent. 

"  Shall  we  make  a  man  of  him  ?  "  repeated  the  Doctor. 

"I  had  rather  be  a  child,"  replied  Paul. 

"  Indeed  !  "  said  the  Doctor.     "  Why  > " 

The  child  sat  on  the  table  looking  at  him,  with  a  curious 
expression  of  suppressed  emotion  in  his  face,  and  beating  one 
hand  proudly  on  his  knee  as  if  he  had  the  rising  tears  beneath 
it,  and  crushed  them.  But  his  other  hand  strayed  a  little  way 
the  while,  a  little  farther — farther  from  him  yet — until  it  lighted 
on  the  neck  of  Florence.  "  This  is  why,"  it  seemed  to  say,  and 
then  the  steady  look  was  broken  up  and  gone  ;  the  working  lip 
was  loosened  ;  and  the  tears  came  streaming  forth. 

"  Mrs  Pipchin,"  said  his  father,  in  a  querulous  manner,  "  I 
am  really  very  sorry  to  see  this." 

"  Come  away  from  him,  do,  Miss  Dombey,"  quoth  the 
matron. 

"  Never  mind,"  said  the  Doctor,  blandly  nodding  his  head, 
to  keep  Mrs.  Pipchin  back.  "  Ne-ver  mind  ;  we  shall  substi- 
tute new  cares  and  new  impressions,  Mr.  Dombey,  very  shortly. 
You  would  still  wish  my  little  friend  to  acquire " 

"  Everything,  if  you  please,  Doctor,"  returned  Mr.  Dombey, 
firmly. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  Doctor,  who,  with  his  half-shut  eyes,  and 
1»is  usual  smile,  seemed  to  survey  Paul  with  the  sort  of  interest 
that  might  attach  to  some  choice  little  animal  he  was  going  to 
stuff.     "  Yes,  exactly.     Ha  1     We  shall  impart  a  great  variety 


14$  DOMBEY  AA'D  SO  AT. 

of  information  to  our  little  friend,  and  brin::;  him  quickly  forward, 
I  dare  say.  I  dare  say.  Quite  a  virgin  soil,  1  believe  you 
said,  Mr.  Dombey  ?  " 

"  Except  some  ordinary  preparation  at  home,  and  from  this 
lady,"  replied  Mr.  Dombey,  introducing  Mrs.  Pipchin,  who 
instantly  communicated  a  rigidity  to  her  whole  muscular  sys- 
tem, and  snorted  defiance  beforehand,  in  case  the  Doctor 
should  disparage  her;  "except  so  far,  Paul  has,  as  yet,  applied 
himself  to  no  studies  at  all." 

Dr.  Blimber  inclined  his  head,  in  gentle  tolerance  of  such 
insignificant  poaching  as  Mrs.  Pipchin's,  and  said  he  was  glad 
to  hear  it.  It  was  much  more  satisfactory,  he  observed,  rub- 
bing his  hands,  to  begin  at  the  foundation.  And  again  lie 
leered  at  Paul,  as  if  he  would  have  liked  to  tackle  him  with  the 
Creek  alphabet  on  the  spot. 

"That  circumstance,  indeed.  Doctor  P>limber,"  pursued  Mr. 
Dombey,  glancing  at  his  little  son,  "  and  the  interview  I  have 
already  had  the  pleasure  of  holding  with  you,  renders  any 
further  explanation,  and  consequently,  any  further  intrusion  on 
your  valuable  time,  so  unnecessary,  that " 

"Now,  Miss  Dombey  !  "  said  the  acid  Pipchin. 

"  Permit  me,"  said  the  Doctor,  "  one  moment.  Allow  me 
to  present  Mrs.  Blimber  and  my  daughter,  wlio  will  be  associated 
with  the  domestic  life  of  our  young  l^ilgrim  to  Parnassus.  Mrs. 
Blimber,"  for  the  lady,  who  had  perhaps  been  in  waiting,  oppor- 
tunely entered,  followed  by  her  daughter,  that  fair  Sexton  in 
spectacles,  "  Mr.  Dombey.  ]\Iy  daughter  Cornelia,  Mr.  Dom- 
bey. Mr.  Dombey,  my  love,"  pursued  the  Doctor,  turning  to 
his  wife,  "  is  so  confiding  as  to — do  you  see  our  little  friend  ?'" 

Mrs.  P)limber,  in  an  excess  of  politeness,  of  which  Mr.  Dom- 
bey was  the  object,  apparently  did  not,  for  she  \^as  backing 
against  the  little  friend,  and  very  much  endangering  his  posi- 
tion on  the  table.  But,  on  this  hint,  she  turned  to  admire  his 
classical  and  intellectual  lineaments,  and  turning  again  to  Mr. 
Dombey,  said,  with  a  sigh,  that  she  envied  his  dear  son. 

"  Like  a  bee.  Sir,"  said  Mrs.  Blimber,  with  uplifted  eyes, 
"  about  to  plunge  into  a  garden  of  the  choicest  flowers,  and 
sip  the  sweets  for  tlie  first  time.  Virgil,  Horace,  Ovid,  Terence, 
Plautus,  Cicero.  What  a  v/orld  of  honey  have  we  here.  It 
may  appear  remarkable,  Mr.  Dombey,  in  one  who  is  a  wife— 
the  wife  of  such  a  husband — " 

"  Hush,  hush,"  said  Dr.  Blimber.     "  Fie  for  shame." 

"  Mr.  Dombey  will  forgive  the  partiality  of  a  wife,"  said 
Mrs,  Blimber,  with  an  engaging  smile. 


PAUL'S  LVTRO DUCT/ON  TO  A  NEW  SCENE 


147 


]\Ir.  Dombey  answered  "  Not  at  all ;  "  applying  those  words, 
it  is  to  be  presumed,  to  the  partiality,  and  not  to  the  forgive- 
ness. 

" — And  it  may  seem  remarkable  in  one  who  is  a  mother 
also,"  resumed  Mrs.  Blimber. 

"  And  such  a  mother,"  observed  Mr.  Dombey,  bowing  with 
some  confused  idea  of  being  complimentary  to  Cornelia. 

"  But  really,"  pursued  Mrs.  Blimber,  "  I  think  if  I  could 
have  known  Cicero,  and  been  his  friend,  and  talked  with  him 
in  his  retirement  at  Tusculum  (beautiful  Tusculum  !),  I  could 
have  died  contented." 

A  learned  enthusiasm  is  so  very  contagious,  that  Mr.  Dom- 
bey half  believed  that  this  was  exactly  his  case  ;  and  even  Mrs. 
Pipchin,  who  was  not,  as  we  have  seen,  of  an  accommodating 
disposition  generally,  gave  utterance  to  a  little  sound  between 
a  groan  and  a  sigh,  as  if  she  would  have  said  that  nobody  but 
Cicero  could  have  proved  a  lasting  consolation  under  that  faib 
ure  of  the  Peruvian  Mines,  but  that  he  indeed  would  have  been 
a  very  Davy-lamp  of  refuge. 

Cornelia  looked  at  Mr.  Dombey  through  her  spectacles,  as 
if  she  would  have  liked  to  crack  a  few  quotations  with  him  from 
the  authority  in  question.  But  this  design,  if  she  entertained 
it,  was  frustrated  by  a  knock  at  the  room-door. 

"  Who  is  that  ?  "  said  the  Doctor.  "  Oh  !  Come  in.  Toots  ; 
come  in.  Mr.  Dombey,  Sir."  Toots  bowed.  "  Quite  a  coin- 
cidence !  "  said  Dr.  Blimber.  "  Here  we  have  the  beginning 
and  the  end.  Alpha  and  Omega.  Our  head  boy,  Mr.  Dom- 
bey." 

The  Doctor  might  have  called  him  their  head  and  shoulders 
boy,  for  he  was  at  least  that  much  taller  than  any  of  the  rest. 
He  blushed  very  much  at  finding  himself  among  strangers,  and 
chuckled  aloud. 

"  An  addition  to  our  little  Portico,  Toots,"  said  the  Doctor  ; 
^  Mr.  Dombey's  son." 

Young  Toots  blushed  again  :  and  finding,  from  a  solemn 
silence  which  prevailed,  that  he  was  expected  to  say  something, 
said  to  Paul,  "  How  are  you  ? "  in  a  voice  so  deep,  and  a  man- 
ner so  sheepish,  that  if  a  lamb  had  roared  it  couldn't  lave  been 
more  surprising. 

"  Ask  Mr.  Feeder,  if  you  please.  Toots,"  said  the  Doctor, 
•'  to  prepare  a  few  introductory  volumes  for  Mr.  Dombey's  son, 
and  to  allot  him  a  convenient  seat  for  study.  My  dear,  J  believe 
Mr.  Dombey  has  not  seen  the  dormitories." 

"  If  Mr.  Dombey  will  walk  up  stairs,"  said  Mrs.  Blimbeii 


148  DOMBE  V  AND  SON. 

"I  shall  be  more  than  proud  to  show  him  the  dominions  of  the 
drowsy  god." 

With  that,  Mrs.  Blimber,  who  was  a  lady  of  great  suavity, 
and  a  wiry  figure,  and  M'ho  wore  a  cap  composed  of  sky-blue 
materials,  proceeded  up  stairs  with  Mr.  Dombey  and  Cornelia  ; 
Mrs.  Pipchin  following,  and  looking  out  sharp  for  her  enemy 
the  footman. 

While  they  were  gone,  Paul  sat  upon  the  table,  holding 
Florence  by  the  hand,  and  glancing  timidly  from  the  Doctor 
round  and  round  the  room,  while  the  Doctor,  leaning  back  in 
his  chair,  with  his  hand  in  his  breast  as  usual,  held  a  book  from 
him  at  arm's  length,  and  read.  There  was  something  very 
awful  in  this  manner  of  reading.  It  was  such  a  determined, 
unimpassioned,  inflexible,  cold-blooded  way  of  going  to  woik. 
It  left  the  Doctor's  countenance  exposed  to  view ;  and  when 
the  Doctor  smiled  auspiciously  at  his  author,  or  knit  his  brows, 
or  shook  his  head  and  made  wry  faces  at  him  as  much  as  to  say, 
**  Don't  tell  me,  Sir:  I  know  better,"  it  was  terrific. 

Toots,  too,  had  no  business  to  be  outside  the  door,  ostenta- 
tiously  examining  the  wheels  in  his  watch,  and  counting  his  half- 
crowns.  But  that  didn't  last  long  ;  for  Dr.  Blimber,  happening 
to  change  the  position  of  his  tight  plump  legs,  as  if  he  were 
going  to  get  up,  Toots  swiftly  vanished,  and  appeared  no  more. 

Mr.  Dombey  and  his  conductress  were  soon  heard  coming 
down  stairs  again,  talking  all  the  way ;  and  presently  they  re- 
entered the  Doctor's  study. 

"  I  hope,  Mr.  Dombey,"  said  the  Doctor,  laying  down  his 
book,  "  that  the  arrangements  meet  your  approval." 

"  They  are  excellent,  Sir,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"Very  fair,  indeed,"  said  Mrs.  Pipchin,  in  a  low  voice; 
never  disposed  to  give  too  much  encouragement. 

"  Mrs.  Pipchin,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  wheeling  round,  "  will, 
with  your  permission.  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Blimber,  visit  Paul  now 
and  then." 

"  Whenever  Mrs.  Pipchin  pleases,"  observed  the  Doctor. 

"Always  happy  to  see  her,"  said  Mrs.  Blimber. 

"  I  think,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "  I  have  given  all  the  trouble 
I  need,  and  may  take  my  leave.  Paul,  my  child,"  he  went  close 
to  him,  as  he  sat  upon  the  table.     "  Good-by." 

"(iood-by,  Papa." 

The  lim]5  and  careless  little  hand  that  Mr.  Dombey  took  in 
his,  was  singularly  out  of  keeping  with  the  wistful  face.  But 
he  had  no  part  in  its  sorrowful  expression.  It  was  not  ad- 
dres,sed  to  him.     No,  no.     To  Florence — all  to  Florence. 


^AUVS  JNTRODVCTiOh'  TO  A  NEW  SCKA'E. 


I4§ 


If  Mr.  Dombey  in  his  insolence  ot  wealth,  had  ever  made 
an  enemy,  hard  to  appease  and  cruelly  vindictive  in  his  hate, 
even  such  an  enemy  might  have  received  the  pang  that  wrung 
his  proud  heart  then,  as  compensation  for  his  injury. 

He  bent  down  over  his  boy,  and  kissed  him.  If  his  sight 
were  dimmed  as  he  did  so,  by  something  that  for  a  moment 
blurred  the  little  face,  and  made  it  indistinct  to  him,  his  mental 
vision  may  have  been,  for  that  short  time  the  clearer  perhaps. 

"  I  shall  see  you  soon,  Paul.  You  are  free  on  Saturdays 
and  Sundays,  you  know." 

"Yes,  Papa,"  returned  Paul:  looking  at  his  sister.  "On 
Saturdays  and  Sundays." 

"And  you'll  try  and  learn  a  great  deal  here,  and  be  a  clever 
vnan,"  said  Mr.  Dombey  ;  "won't  you?" 

"  I'll  try,"  returned  the  child  wearily. 

"  And  you'll  soon  be  grown  up  now  ! "  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  Oh  !  very  soon  !  "  replied  the  child.  Once  more  the  old, 
old  look,  passed  rapidly  across  his  features  like  a  strange  light. 
It  fell  on  Mrs.  Pipchin,  and  extinguished  itself  in  her  black 
dress.  That  excellent  ogress  stepped  forward  to  take  leave  and 
to  bear  off  Florence,  which  she  had  long  been  thirsting  to  do. 
The  move  on  her  part  roused  Mr.  Dombey,  whose  eyes  were 
fixed  on  Paul.  After  patting  him  on  the  head,  and  pressing 
his  small  hand  again,  he  took  leave  of  Doctor  Blimber,  Mrs. 
Blimber,  and  Miss  Blimber,  with  his  usual  polite  frigidity,  and 
walked  out  of  the  study. 

Despite  his  entreaty  that  they  would  not  think  of  stirring, 
Doctor  Blimber,  Mrs,  Blimber,  and  Miss  Blimber  all  pressed 
forward  to  attend  him  to  the  hall ;  and  thus  Mrs.  Pipchin  got 
Into  a  state  of  entanglement  with  Miss  Blimber  and  the  Doc- 
tor, and  was  crowded  out  of  the  study  before  she  could  clutch 
Florence.  To  which  happy  accident  Paul  stood  afterwards  in- 
debted for  the  dear  remembrance,  that  Florence  ran  back  to 
throw  her  arms  round  his  neck,  and  that  hers  was  the  last  face 
in  the  doorway :  turned  towards  him  with  a  smile  of  encourage- 
ment, the  brighter  for  the  tears  through  which  it  beamed. 

It  made  his  childish  bosom  heave  and  swell  when  it  was 
gone  i  and  sent  the  globes,  the  books,  blind  Homer  and  Mi- 
nerva, swimming  round  the  room.  But  they  stopped,  all  of  a 
sudden ;  and  then  he  heard  the  loud  clock  in  the  hall  still 
gravely  inquiring  "  how,  is,  my,  lit,  tie,  friend  ?  how,  is,  my,  lit, 
tie,  friend  ?  "  as  it  had  done  before. 

He  sat  with  folded  hands,  upon  his  pedestal,  silently  listeiv 
ing.     But  he  might  have  answered  "  weary,  weary !  very  lonely, 


«Sd 


DUMBEY  AND  SOM 


very  sad  !  "  And  there  with  an  aching  void  in  his  young  heafi 
and  all  outside  so  cold,  and  bare,  and  strange,  Paul  sat  as  if  he 
had  taken  life  unfurnished,  and  the  upholsterer  were  nevet 
coming. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

Paul's   education. 

After  the  lapse  of  some  minutes,  which  appeared  an  im- 
mense time  to  little  Paul  Dombey  on  the  table,  Doctor  Bhmber 
came  back.  The  Doctor's  walk  was  stately,  and  calculated  to 
ir.ipress  the  juvenile  mind  with  solemn  feelings.  Jt  was  a  sort 
of  march;  but  when  the  Doctor  put  out  his  right  foot,  he 
gravely  turned  upon  his  axis,  with  a  semicircular  sweep  towards 
the  left ;  and  when  he  put  out  his  left  foot,  he  turned  in  the 
same  manner  towards  the  right.  So  that  he  seemed,  at  every 
stride  he  took  to  look  about  him  as  though  he  were  saying, 
"  Can  anybody  have  the  goodness  to  indicate  any  subject,  in 
any  direction,  on  which  I  am  uninformed.'  I  rather  think 
not." 

Mrs.  Blimber  and  Miss  Blimber  came  back  in  the  Doctor's 
company  :  and  the  Doctor,  lifting  his  new  pupil  off  the  table, 
delivered  him  over  to  Miss  Blimber. 

"  Cornelia,"  said  the  Doctor,  "  Dombey  will  be  your  charge 
at  first.     Bring  him  on,  Cornelia,  bring  him  on." 

Miss  Blimber  received  her  young  ward  from  the  Doctor's 
hands  ,  and  Paul,  feeling  that  the  spectacles  were  surveying 
him,  cast  down  his  eyes. 

"  How  old  are  you,  Dombey  ?  "  said  Miss  Blimber. 

"  Six,"  answered  Paul,  wondering,  as  he  stole  a  glance  at 
the  young  lady,  why  her  hair  didn't  grow  long  like  Florence's, 
and  why  she  was  like  a  boy. 

"  How  much  do  you  know  of  your  Latin  Grammar,  Dom- 
bey ?  "  said  Miss  Blimber. 

"None  of  it,"  answered  Paul.  Feeling  that  the  answer 
was  a  shock  to  Miss  Blimber's  sensibility,  he  looked  up  at  the 
three  faces  that  were  looking  down  at  liim,  and  said  : 

"  I  hav'n't  been  well.  I  have  been  a  weak  child.  I  couldn't 
learn  a  Latin  Grammar  when  I  was  out,  every  day,  with  old 


PAULS  EDUCA  TTON. 


15' 


Glubb.  T  wish  you'd  tell  old  Glubb  to  come  and  see  me,  if 
you  please." 

"  What  a  dreadful  low  name  !  "  said  Mrs.  Blimber.  "  Un- 
classical  to  a  degree  !     Who  is  the  monster,  child  ?  " 

"  What  monster  ?  "  inquired  Paul. 

"Glubb,"  said  Mrs.  Blimber,  with  a  great  disrelish. 

"  He's  no  more  a  monster  than  you  are,"  returned  Paul. 

"  What !  "  cried  the  Doctor,  m  a  terrible  voice.  "  Ay,  ay, 
ay.^     Aha!     What's  that?" 

Paul  was  dreadfully  frightened  ;  but  still  he  made  a  stand 
for  the  absent  Glubb,  though  he  did  it  trembling. 

"  He's  a  very  nice  old  man.  Ma'am,"  he  said,  "  He  used  to 
draw  my  couch.  He  knows  all  about  the  deep  sea,  and  the  fish 
that  are  in  it,  and  the  great  monsters  that  come  and  lie  on 
rocks  in  the  sun,  and  "ive  into  the  water  again  when  they're 
startled,  blowing  and  splashing  so,  that  they  can  be  heard  for 
miles.  There  are  some  creatures,"  said  Paul,  warming  with  his 
subject,  "  I  don't  know  how  many  yards  long,  and  I  forget 
their  names,  but  Florence  knows,  that  pretend  to  be  in  dis- 
tress ;  and  when  a  man  goes  near  them,  out  of  compassion, 
they  open  their  great  jaws,  and  attack  hrni.  But  all  he  has  got 
to  do,"  said  Paul,  boldly  tendering  this  information  to  the  very 
Doctor  himself,  "  is  to  keep  on  turning  as  he  runs  away,  and 
then,  as  they  turn  slowly,  because  they  are  so  long,  and  can't 
bend,  he's  sure  to  beat  them.  And  though  old  Glubb  don't 
know  why  the  sea  should  make  me  think  of  my  Mama  that's 
dead,  or  what  it  is  that  it  is  always  saying — always  saying  !  he 
knows  a  great  deal  about  it.  And  I  wish,"  the  child  concluded, 
with  a  sudden  falling  of  his  countenance,  and  failing  in  his  ani- 
mation, as  he  looked  like  one  forlorn,  upon  the  three  strange 
faces,  "  that  you'd  let  old  Glubb  come  here  to  see  me,  for  I 
know  him  very  well,  and  he  knows  me." 

"  Ha  !  "  said  the  Doctor,  shaking  his  head  :  "this  is  bad, 
but  study  will  do  much." 

Mrs.  Blimber  opined,  with  something  like  a  shiver,  that  he 
was  an  unaccountable  child  ;  and,  allowing  for  the  difference 
of  visage,  looked  at  him  pretty  much  as  Mrs.  Pipchin  had  been 
used  to  do. 

"Take  him  round  the  house,  Cornelia,"  said  the  Doctor, 
"  and  familiarize  him  with  his  new  sphere.  Go  with  that  young 
lady,  Dombey." 

Dombey  obeyed  ;  giving  his  hand  to  the  abstruse  Cornelia, 
and  looking  at  her  sideways,  with  timid  curiosity,  as  they  went 
gway  together.     For  her  spectacles,  by  reason  of  the  glistening 


'5* 


DOMBEY  AND  SOiV. 


of  the  glasses,  made  her  so  mysterious,  that  he  didn  t  Yno^n 
where  she  was  looking,  and  was  not  indeed  quite  sure  that  she 
had  any  eyes  at  all  behind  them. 

Cornelia  took  him  first  to  the  school-room,  which  was  situ 
ated  at  tlie  back  of  the  hall,  and  was  approached  through  two 
baize  doors,  which  deadened  and  muffled  the  young  gentlemen's 
voices.  Here,  there  were  eight  young  gentlemen  m  various 
stages  of  mental  prostration,  all  very  hard  at  work  and  very 
grave  indeed.  Toots,  as  an  old  hand,  had  a  desk  to  himself  in 
one  corner  :  and  a  magnificent  man,  of  immense  age,  he  looked, 
in  Paul's  young  eyes,  behind  it. 

Mr.  Feeder,  B.A.,  who  sat  at  another  little  desk,  had  his 
Virgil  stop  on,  and  was  slowly  grinding  that  tune  to  four  young 
gentlemen.  Of  the  remaining  four,  two,  who  grasped  their 
foreheads  convulsively,  were  engaged  in  solving  mathematical 
problems ;  one  with  his  face  like  a  dirty  window,  from  much 
crying,  was  endeavoring  to  flounder  through  a  hopeless  num- 
ber of  lines  before  dinner  ;  and  one  sat  looking  at  his  task  in 
stony  stupefaction  and  despair — which  it  seemed  had  been  his 
condition  ever  since  breakfast  time. 

The  appearance  of  a  new  boy  did  not  create  the  sensation 
that  might  have  been  expected.  Mr.  Feeder,  B.A.,  (who  was  in 
the  habit  of  shaving  his  head  for  coolness,  and  had  nothing 
but  little  bristles  on  it,)  gave  him  a  bony  hand,  and  told  him  he 
was  glad  to  see  him — which  Paul  would  have  been  very  glad 
to  have  told  him,  if  he  could  have  done  so  with  the  least  sin- 
cerity. Then  Paul,  instructed  by  Cornelia,  shook  hands  with 
the  four  young  gentlemen  at  Mr.  Feeder's  desk;  then  with  the 
two  young  gentlemen  at  work  on  the  problems,  who  were  very 
feverish  ;  then  with  the  young  gentleman  at  work  against  time, 
who  was  very  inky  ;  and  lastly  with  the  young  gentleman  in  a 
state  of  stupefaction,  who  was  flabby  and  quite  cold. 

Paul  having  been  already  introduced  to  Toots,  that  pupil 
merely  chuckled  and  breathed  hard,  as  his  custom  was,  and 
pursued  the  occupation  in  which  he  was  engaged.  Jt  was  not 
a  severe  one  ;  for  on  account  of  his  having  "gone  through  "  so 
much  (in  more  senses  than  one),  and  also  of  his  having,  as  be- 
fore hinted,  left  off  blowing  in  his  prime,  Toots  now  had  license 
to  pursue  his  own  course  of  study  :  which  was  chiefly  to  write 
long  letters  to  himself  from  persons  of  distinction,  addressed 
"  P.  Toots,  Esquire,  Brighton,  Sussex,"  and  to  preserve  them 
in  his  desk  with  great  care. 

These  ceremonies  passed,  Cornelia  led  Paul  up  stairs  to  the 
top  of  the  house )  whigh  was  rather  a  slow  journey,  on  account 


PA UVS  EDUCA  TION.  \ 53 

of  Paul  being  obliged  to  land  both  feet  on  every  stair,  before 
he  mounted  another — But  they  reached  their  journey's  end  at 
last;  and  there,  in  a  front  room,  looking  over  the  wild  sea, 
Cornelia  showed  him  a  nice  little  bed  with  white  hangings, 
close  to  the  window,  on  which  there  was  already  beautifully 
written  on  a  card  in  round  text — down  strokes  very  thick,  and 
up  strokes  very  fine — Dombey  ;  while  two  other  little  bedsteads 
in  the  same  room  were  announced,  through  like  means,  as 
respectively  appertaining  unto  Briggs  and  Tozer. 

Just  as  they  got  down  stairs  again  into  the  hall,  Paul  saw 
the  weak-eyed  young  man  who  had  given  that  mortal  ofifence  to 
Mrs.  Pipchin,  suddenly  seize  a  very  large  drumstick,  and  fly  at 
a  gong  that  was  hanging  up,  as  if  he  had  gone  mad,  or  wanted 
vengeance.  Instead  of  receiving  warning,  however,  or  being 
instantly  taken  into  custody,  the  young  man  left  off  unchecked, 
after  having  made  a  dreadful  noise.  Then  Cornelia  Blimber 
^id  to  Dombey  that  dinner  would  be  ready  in  a  quarter  of  an 
nrur,  and  perhaps  he  had  better  go  into  the  school-room  among 
his  "  friends." 

So  Dombey,  deferentially  passing  the  great  clock  which  was 
still  as  anxious  as  ever  to  know  how  he  found  himself,  opened 
the  school-room  door  a  very  little  way,  and  strayed  in  like  a 
lost  boy ;  shutting  it  after  him  with  some  difficulty.  His  friends 
were  all  dispersed  about  the  room  except  the  stony  friend,  who 
remained  immovable.  Mr.  Feeder  was  stretching  himself  in 
his  gray  gown,  as  if,  regardless  of  expense,  he  were  resolved  to 
pull  the  sleeves  off. 

"  Heigh  ho  hum  !  "  cried  Mr.  Feeder,  shaking  himself  like 
a  cart-horse,  "  Oh  dear  me,  dear  me  !     Ya-a-a-ah  !  " 

Paul  was  quite  alarmed  by  Mr.  Feeder's  yawning  ;  it  was 
done  on  such  a  great  scale,  and  he  was  so  terribly  in  earnest. 
All  the  boys  too  (Toots  excepted)  seemed  knocked  up,  and 
were  getting  ready  for  dinner — some  newly  tying  their  neck- 
cloths, which  were  very  stiff  indeed  ;  and  others  washing  their 
hands  or  brushing  their  hair,  in  an  adjoining  ante- chamber — as 
if  they  didn't  think  they  should  enjoy  it  at  all. 

Young  Toots  who  was  ready  beforehand,  and  had  therefore 
nothing  to  do,  and  had  leisure  to  bestow  upon  Paul,  said,  with 
heavy  good  nature : 

"  Sit  down,  Dombey." 

"  Thank  you.  Sir,"  said  Paul. 

His  endeavoring  to  hoist  himself  on  to  a  very  high  window- 
seat,  and  his  slipping  down  again,  appeared  to  prepare  Toots's 
mind  for  the  reception  of  a  discovery. 


J  54  DOM/iEV  ^y\'2>  SON. 

"  You're  a  very  small  chap,"  said  Mr.  Toots. 

"  Yes,  Sir,  I'm  small,"  returned  Paul.      "  Thank  you.  Sir." 

For  Toots  had  lifted  him  into  the  seat,  and  done  it  kindly 
loo. 

"  Who's  your  tailor  ?  "  inquired  Toots,  after  looking  at  him 
for  some  moments. 

"  It's  a  woman  that  has  made  my  clothes  as  yet,"  said 
Paul.      "  My  sister's  dressmaker." 

"  My  tailor's  Burgess  and  Co ,"  said  Toots.  "  Fash'nable. 
But  very  dear." 

Paul  had  wit  enough  to  shake  his  head,  as  if  he  would 
have  said  it  was  easy  to  see  Ihat ,   and  indeed  he  thought  so. 

"  Your  father's  regularly  rich,  ain't  he  ?  "  inquired  Mr. 
Toots. 

"  Yes,  Sir,"  said  Paul.  "He's  Dombey  and  Son." 

"  And  which  1  "  demanded  Toots. 

"  And  Son,  Sir,"  replied  Paul. 

Mr.  Toots  made  one  or  two  attempts,  in  a  low  voice,  to  fix 
the  firm  in  his  mind  ;  but  not  quite  succeeding,  said  he  would 
get  Paul  to  mention  the  name  again  to-morrow  morning,  as  it 
was  rather  important.  And  indeed  he  purposed  nothing  less 
than  writing  himself  a  private  and  confidential  letter  from 
Dombey  and  Son  immediately. 

By  this  time  the  other  pupils  (always  excepting  the  stony 
boy)  gathered  round.  They  were  polite,  but  pale  ;  and  spoke 
low ;  and  they  were  so  depressed  in  their  spirits,  that  m  com- 
parison with  the  general  tone  of  that  company,  Master  Bither- 
stone  was  a  perfect  Miller,  or  complete  Jest  Book.  And  yet 
he  had  a  sense  of  injury  upon  him,  too,  had  Bitherstone. 

"  You  sleep  in  my  room,  don't  you  ?  "  asked  a  solemn 
young  gentleman,  whose  shirt-collar,  curled  up  the  lobes  of  his 
ears. 

'*  Master  Briggs  ?  "  inquired  Paul. 

"  Tozer,"  said  the  young  gentleman. 

Paul  answered  yes  ;  and  Tozer  pointing «ut  the  stony  pupil, 
said  that  was  Briggs.  Paul  had  already  feU  certain  that  it  must 
be  either  Briggs  or  Tozer,  though  he  didn'l  know  why. 

"  Is  yours  a  strong  constitution?"  inquired  Tozer. 

Paul  said  he  thought  not.  Tozer  rcp)'<id  that  /ic  thought 
not  also  judging  from  Paul's  looks,  and  th;«»;  it  was  a  ]-)ity,  for 
it  need  be.  He  then  asked  Paul  if  he  wt"-e  going  to  begin 
with  Cornelia  ;  and  on  Paul  saying  "  yes,"  all  *he  young  gentle- 
man (Briggs  excepted)  gave  a  low  groan. 

It  was  drowned  in  the  tintinnabulation  a    the  "onz,  which 


PA Ors  I'D UCA TIOJV.  i 5 5 

sonnding  again  with  great  fury,  there  was  a  general  move 
towards  the  dining-room  ;  still  excepting  Briggs  the  stony  boy, 
who  remained  where  he  was,  and  as  he  was  ;  and  on  its  way  to 
whom  Paul  presently  encountered  a  round  of  bread,  genteelly 
served  on  a  plate  and  napkin,  and  with  a  silver  fork  lying 
crosswise  on  the  top  of  it. 

Doctor  Blimber  was  already  in  his  place  in  the  dimng-room, 
at  the  top  of  the  table,  with  Miss  Blimber  and  Mrs.  Blimber  on 
either  side  of  him.  Mr.  Feeder  in  a  black  coat  was  at  the 
bottom.  Paul's  chair  was  next  to  Miss  Blimber ;  but  it  being 
found,  when  he  sat  in  it,  that  his  eyebrows  were  not  much 
above  the  level  of  the  table-cloth,  some  books  were  brought  in 
from  the  Doctor's  study,  on  which  he  was  elevated,  and  on 
which  he  always  sat  from  that  time — carrying  them  in  and  out 
himself  on  after  occasions,  like  a  little  elephant  and  castle. 

Grace  having  been  said  by  the  Doctor,  dinner  began. 
There  was  some  nice  soup;  also  roast  meat,  boiled  meat, 
vegetables,  pie,  and  cheese.  Every  young  gentleman  had  a 
massive  silver  fork,  and  a  napkin  ;  and  all  the  arrangements 
were  stately  and  handsome.  In  particular,  there  was  a  butler 
in  a  blue  coat  and  bright  buttons,  who  gave  quite  a  winey 
flavor  to  the  table  beer  ;  he  poured  it  out  so  superbly. 

Nobody  spoke,  unless  spoken  to,  except  Doctor  Blimber, 
Mrs.  Blimber,  and  Miss  Blimber,  who  conversed  occasionally. 
Whenever  a  young  gentleman  was  not  actually  engaged  with 
his  knife  and  fork  or  spoon,  his  eye,  with  an  irresistible 
attraction,  sought  the  eye  of  Doctor  Blimber,  Mrs.  Blimber,  or 
Miss  Blimber,  and  modestly  rested  there.  Toots  appeared  to 
be  the  only  exception  to  this  rule.  He  sat  next  Mr.  Feeder  on 
Paul's  side  of  the  table,  and  frequently  looked  behind  and 
before  the  intervening  boys  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  Paul. 

Only  once  during  dinner  was  there  any  conversation  that 
included  the  young  gentlemen.  It  happened  at  the  epoch  of 
the  cheese,  when  the  Doctor,  having  taken  a  glass  of  port  wine, 
and  hemmed  twice  or  thrice,  said : 

"  It  is  remarkable,  Mr.  Feeder,  that  the  Romans — " 

At  the  mention  of  this  terrible  people,  their  implacable 
enemies,  every  young  gentleman  fastened  his  gaze  upon  the 
Doctor,  with  an  assumption  of  the  deepest  interest.  One  of 
the  number  who  happened  to  be  drinking,  and  who  caught  the 
Doctor's  eye  glaring  at  him  through  the  side  of  his  tumbler, 
left  off  so  hastily  that  he  was  convulsed  for  some  moments,  and 
in  the  sequel  ruined  Doclor  Blimber's  point. 

''  It  is  remarkable  Mr.  Feeder,"  said  the  Doctor,  beginning 


,156  DOMBEY  AND  SOSl 

again  slowly,  "  that  the  Romans,  in  those  gorgeous  and  profuse 
entertainments  of  which  we  read  in  the  days  of  tlie  Emperors, 
when  luxury  had  attained  a  height  unknown  before  or  since,  and 
when  whole  provinces  were  ravaged  to  supply  the  splendid 
means  of  one  Imperial  Banquet " 

Here  the  offender,  who  had  been  swelling  and  straining,  and 
waiting  in  vain  for  a  full  stop,  broke  out  violently. 

"  Johnson,"  said  Mr.  Feeder,  in  a  low  reproachful  voice, 
"take  some  water." 

The  Doctor,  looking  very  stern,  made  a  pause  until  the 
water  was  brought,  and  then  resumed  : 

"And  when,  Mr.  P'eeder — " 

But  Mr.  Feeder,  who  saw  that  Johnson  must  break  out 
again,  and  who  knew  that  the  Doctor  would  never  come  to  a 
period  before  the  young  gentlemen  until  he  had  finished  all  he 
meant  to  say,  couldn't  keep  his  eye  off  Johnson  ;  and  thus  was 
caught  in  the  fact  of  not  looking  at  the  Doctor,  who  consequently 
stopped. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Sir,"  said  Mr.  Feeder,  reddening.  "  I 
beg  your  pardon.  Doctor  Blimber." 

"And  when,"  said  the  Doctor,  raising  his  voice,  "when.  Sir, 
as  we  read,  and  have  no  reason  to  doubt — incredible  as  it  may 
appear  to  the  vulgar  of  our  time — the  brother  of  Vitellius  pre- 
pared for  him  a  feast,  in  which  were  served,  of  fish,  two  thou- 
sand dishes — " 

"  Take  some  water,  Johnson — dishes.  Sir,"  said  Mr.  Feeder. 

"  Of  various  sorts  of  fowl,  five  thousand  dishes." 

"  Or  try  a  crust  of  bread,"  said  Mr.  Feeder. 

"  And  one  dish,"  pursued  Doctor  Blimber,  raising  his  voice 
still  higher  as  he  looked  all  round  the  table,  "  called,  from  its 
enormous  dimensions,  the  Shield  of  Minerva,  and  made,  among 
other  costly  ingredients,  of  the  brains  of  pheasants — " 

"  Ow,  ow,  ow  !  "  (from  Johnson.) 

"Woodcocks — " 

"  Ow,  ow,  ow  !  " 

"  The  sounds  of  the  fish  called  scari — " 

"  You'll  burst  some  vessel  in  your  head,"  said  Mr.  Feeder. 
"  You  had  better  let  it  come." 

"And  the  spawn  of  the  lamprey,  brought  from  the  Carpa- 
thian Sea,"  pursued  tlie  Doctor,  in  his  severest  voice  ;  "when 
we  read  of  costly  entertainments  such  as  these,  and  still  rc^ 
member,  that  we  ha\  e  a  Titus — " 

"  What  would  be  your  mother's  feelings  if  you  died  of 
apoplexy  !  "  said  Mr.  Feeder. 


pAurs  education: 


157 


"  A  Domitian — " 

**  And  you're  blue,  you  know,"  said  Mr,  Feeder. 

"  A  Nero,  a  Tiberius,  a  Caligula,  a  Heliogabalus,  and  many 
more,"  pursued  the  Doctor ;  "  it  is,  Mr.  Feeder — if  you  are 
doing  me  the  honor  to  attend — remarkable  :  very — remarkable, 
Sir—" 

But  Johnson,  unable  to  suppress  it  any  longer,  burst  at  that 
moment  into  such  an  overwhelming  fit  of  coughing,  that  although 
both  his  immediate  neighbors  thumped  him  on  the  back,  and 
Mr.  Feeder  himself  held  a  glass  of  water  to  his  lips,  and  the 
butler  walked  him  up  and  down  several  times  between  his  own 
chair  and  the  sideboard,  like  a  sentry,  it  was  full  five  minutes 
before  he  was  moderately  composed,  and  then  there  was  a  pro- 
found silence. 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  Doctor  Blimber,  "  rise  for  Grace  !  Cor- 
nelia, lift  Dombey  down  " — nothing  of  whom  but  his  scalp  was 
accordingly  seen  above  the  table-cloth.  "Johnson  will  repeat 
to  me  to-morrow  morning  before  breakfast,  without  book,  and 
from  the  Greek  Testament,  the  first  chapter  of  the  Epistle  of 
Saint  Paul  to  the  Ephesians.  We  will  resume  our  studies,  Mr. 
Feeder,  in  half-an-hour." 

The  young  gentlemen  bowed  and  withdrew.  Mr.  Feeder 
did  likewise.  During  the  half-hour,  the  young  gentlemen, 
broken  into  pairs,  loitered  arm-in-arm  up  and  down  a  small 
piece  of  ground  behind  the  house,  or  endeavored  to  kindle  a 
spark  of  animation  in  the  breast  of  Briggs.  But  nothing  hap- 
pened so  vulgar  as  play.  Punctually  at  the  appointed  time, 
the  gong  was  sounded,  and  the  studies,  under  the  joint  auspices 
of  Doctor  Blimber  and  Mr.  Feeder,  were  resumed. 

As  the  Olympic  game  of  lounging  up  and  down  had  been 
cut  shorter  than  usual  that  day,  on  Johnson's  account,  they  all 
went  out  for  a  walk  before  tea.  Even  Briggs  (though  he 
.hadn't  begun  yet)  partook  of  this  dissipation  ;  in  the  enjoyment 
'of  which  he  looked  over  the  cliff  two  or  three  times  darkly. 
Doctor  Blimber  accompanied  them ;  and  Paul  had  the  honor  of 
being  taken  in  tow  by  the  Doctor  himself :  a  distinguished 
state  of  things,  in  which  he  looked  very  little  and  feeble. 

Tea  was  served  in  a  style  no  less  polite  than  the  dinner  ;  and 
after  tea,  the  young  gentlemen  rising  and  bowing  as  before, 
withdrew  to  fetch  up  the  unfinished  tasks  of  that  day,  or  to  get 
up  the  already  looming  tasks  of  to-morrow.  In  the  meantime 
Mr.  Feeder  withdrew  to  his  own  room  ;  and  Paul  sat  in  a  corner 
wondering  whether  Florence  was  thinking  of  him,  and  what  they 
were  ftU  about  at  Mrs,  Pinchin's, 


Ijg  DOMBEY  AND  SOAT. 

Ml.  Toots,  who  had  been  detained  by  an  important  lettci 
from  the  Duke  of  W'ellinpjton,  found  Paul  out  after  a  time  ;  and 
having  looked  at  him  for  a  long  while,  as  before,  inquired  if  he 
was  fond  of  waistcoats. 

Paul  said  "  Yes,  Sir." 

"  So  am  I,"  said  Toots. 

No  word  more  spake  Toots  that  night  ;  but  he  stood  look- 
ing at  Paul  as  if  he  liked  him  ;  and  as  there  was  company  in 
that,  and  Paul  was  not  inclined  to  talk,  it  answered  his  purpose 
better  than  conversation. 

At  eight  o'clock  or  so,  the  gong  sounded  again  for  prayers 
in  the  dining-room,  where  the  butler  afterwards  presided  over  a 
side-table,  on  wliich  bread  and  cheese  and  beer  were  spread  for 
such  young  gentlemen  as  desired  to  partake  of  those  refresh- 
ments. The  ceremonies  concluded  by  the  Doctor's  saying, 
"  Gentlemen,  we  will  resume  our  studies  at  seven  to-morrow  ;" 
and  then  for  the  first  time,  Paul  saw  Cornelia  Blimber's  eye, 
and  saw  that  it  was  upon  him.  When  the  Doctor  had  said 
these  words,  "Gentlemen,  we  will  resume  our  studies  at  seven 
to-morrow,"  tlie  pupils  bowed  again,  and  went  to  bed. 

In  the  confidence  of  their  own  room  up  stairs,  Briggs  said 
his  head  ached  ready  to  split,  and  that  he  should  wish  himself. 
dead  if  it  wasn't  for  his  mother,  and  a  blackbird  he  had  at 
home.  Tozer  didn't  say  much,  but  he  sighed  a  good  deal,  and 
told  Paul  to  look  out,  for  his  turn  would  come  to-morrow.  After 
uttering  those  prophetic  words,  he  undressed  himself  moodily, 
and  got  into  bed.  Briggs  was  in  his  bed  too,  and  Paul  in  his 
bed  too,  before  the  weak-eyed  young  man  appeared  to  take 
away  the  candle,  when  he  wished  them  good-night  and  pleasant 
dreams.  But  his  benevolent  wishes  were  \w  vain,  as  far  as 
Briggs  and  Tozer  were  concerned  ;  for  Paul,  wlic»  hiy  awake  foi 
%  long  while,  and  often  woke  afterwards,  found  tluit  P)riggs  was 
ridden  by  his  lesson  as  a  nightmare  :  and  that  Tozer,  whose 
oiiind  was  affected  in  his  sleep  by  similar  causes,  in  a  minor 
degree,  talked  unknown  tongues,  or  scraps  of  Greek  and  Latm 
— it  was  all  one  to  Paul — which,  in  the  silence  of  night,  had  an 
inexpressibly  wicked  and  guilty  effect. 

Paul  had  sunk  into  a  sweet  sleep,  and  dreamed  that  he  was. 
walking  hand  in  hand  with  Florence  through  beautiful  gardens, 
when  they  came  to  a  large  sunllower  which  suddenly  expanded 
itself  into  a  gong,  and  began  to  sound.  Opening  his  eyes,  iie 
found  that  it  was  a  dark,  windy  morning,  with  a  dri/zling  rain  • 
and  that  the  real  gong  was  giving  dreadful  note  of  preparation, 
down  in  the  hali. 


PA  UVS  EDUCA  TION.  X 59 

So  he  got  up  directly,  and  found  Briggs  with  hardly  any  eyes, 
for  nightmare  and  grief  had  made  his  face  puffy,  putting  his 
boots  on  :  while  Tozer  stood  shivering  and  rubbing  liis  shoulders 
in  a  very  bad  humor.  Poor  Paul  couldn't  dress  himself  easily, 
not  being  used  to  it,  and  asked  them  if  they  would  have  the 
goodness  to  tie  some  strings  for  him  ;  but  as  Briggs  merely  said 
''  Bother ! "  and  Tozer,  "  Oh  yes  !  "  he  went  down  when  he 
was  otherwise  ready,  to  the  next  story,  where  he  saw  a  pretty 
young  woman  in  leather  gloves,  cleaning  a  stove.  The  young 
woman  seemed  surprised  at  his  appearance,  and  asked  him 
where  his  mother  was.  When  Paul  told  her  she  was  dead,  she 
took  her  gloves  off,  and  did  what  he  wanted  \  and  furthermore 
nibbed  his  hands  to  warm  them  ;  and  gave  him  a  kiss ;  and 
told  him  whenever  he  wanted  anything  of  that  sort — meaning 
in  the  dressing  way — to  ask  for  'Melia  ;  which  Paul,  thanking 
her  very  much,  said  he  certainly  would.  He  then  proceeded 
softly  on  his  journey  down  stairs,  towards  the  room  in  which 
the  young  gentlemen  resumed  their  studies,  when,  passing  by  a 
door  that  stood  ajar,  a  voice  from  within  cried  "  Is  that  Dom- 
bey  ?  "  On  Paul  replying,  "  Yes,  Ma'am  :  "  for  he  knew  the 
voice  to  be  Miss  Blimber's  :  Miss  Blimber  said  "  Come  in. 
Do.nbey.''     And  in  he  went. 

Miss  Blimber  presented  exactly  the  appearance  she  had 
presented  yesterday,  except  that  she  wore  a  shawl.  Her  little 
light  curl?  were  as  crisp  as  ever,  and  she  had  already  her  spec- 
tacles on,  which  made  Paul  wonder  whether  she  went  to  bed 
in  them.  She  had  a  cool  little  sitting-room  of  her  own  up 
there,  with  some  books  in  it,  and  no  fire.  But  Miss  Blimber 
was  never  cold,  and  never  sleepy. 

"  Now,  Dombey,"  said  Miss  Blimber,  "  I  am  going  out  for  a 
constitutional." 

Paul  wondered  what  that  was,  and  why  she  didn't  send  the 
footman  out  to  get  it  in  such  unfavorable  weather.  But  he 
made  no  observation  on  the  subject :  his  attention  being  de- 
voted to  a  little  pile  of  new  books  on  which  Miss  Blimber  ap- 
peared to  have  been  recently  engaged. 

"  These  are  yours,  Dombey,"  said  Miss  Blimber. 

''  All  of  'em,  Ma'am  ?  "  said  Paul. 

"  Yes,"  returned  Miss  Blimber  ;  "  and  Mr.  Feeder  will  look 
you  out  some  more  very  soon,  if  you  are  as  studious  as  1  ex- 
pect you  will  be,  Dombey." 

"Thank  you,  Ma'am,"  said  Paul. 

"  I  am  going  out  for  a  constitutional,"  resumed  Miss  Blim 
bf^r ;  "  ?ind  wliiie  I  am  gone,  that  i,s  to  say  in  the  interval  b« 


^e  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

tween  this  and  breakfast,  Dombey,  I  wish  you  to  read  ovei 
what  I  have  marked  in  these  books,  and  to  tell  me  if  you  quite 
understand  what  you  have  got  to  learn.  Don't  lose  time, 
Dombey,  for  you  have  none  to  spare,  but  take  them  down 
stairs,  and  begin  directly." 

"  Yes,  Ma'am,"  answered  Paul. 

There  were  so  many  of  them,  that  although  Paul  put  one 
hand  under  the  bottom  book  and  his  other  hand  and  his  chin 
on  the  top  book,  and  hugged  them  all  closely,  the  middle  book 
slipped  out  before  he  reached  the  door,  and  then  they  all 
tumbled  down  on  the  floor.  Miss  Blimber  said,  "  Oh,  Dom- 
bey, Dombey,  this  is  really  very  careless  !  "  and  piled  them  up 
afresh  for  him  ;  and  this  time,  by  dint  of  balancing  them  with 
great  nicety,  Paul  got  out  of  the  room,  and  down  a  few  stairs 
before  two  of  them  escaped  again.  But  he  held  the  rest  so 
tight,  that  he  only  left  one  more  on  the  first  floor,  and  one  in 
the  passage  ;  and  when  he  had  got  the  main  body  down  into 
the  school-room,  he  set  off  up  stairs  again  to  collect  the  strag- 
glers. Having  at  last  amassed  the  whole  library,  and  climbed 
into  his  place,  he  fell  to  work,  encouraged  by  a  remark  from 
Tozer  to  the  effect  that  he  "  was  in  for  it  nov.' ;"  which  was  the 
only  interruption  he  received  till  breakfast  time.  At  that  meal, 
for  which  he  had  no  appetite,  everything  was  quite  as  solemn 
and  genteel  as  at  the  others;  and  when  it  was  finished,  he  fol- 
lowed Miss  Blimber  up  stairs. 

"  Now,  Dombey,"  said  Miss  Blimber.  "  How  have  you  got 
on  with  those  books  ? " 

They  comprised  a  little  English,  and  a  deal  of  Latin — 
names  of  things,  declensions  of  articles  and  substantives,  exer- 
cises thereon,  and  preliminary  rules — a  trifle  of  orthography, 
a  glance  at  ancient  history,  a  wink  or  two  at  modern  ditto,  a 
few  tables,  two  or  three  weights  and  measures,  and  a  little  gen- 
eral information.  When  pooi  Paul  had  i^pelt  out  number  two, 
he  found  he  had  no  idea  of  number  one  ,  fragments  whereof 
afterwards  obtruded  themselves  into  number  three,  which  slided 
into  number  four,  wliich  grafted  itself  on  to  number  two.  So 
that  whether  twenty  Romuluses  made  a  Remus,  or  hie  ha?c 
hoc  was  troy  weight,  or  a  verb  always  agreed  with  an  ancient 
Briton,  or  three  times  four  was  Taurus  a  bulL  were  open  ques- 
tions with  him. 

"  Oh,  Dombey,  Dombey  !  "  said  Miss  Blimber,  "  this  is  very 
shocking." 

"  If  you  please,"  said  Paul,  "  I  think  if  I  might  sometimes 
talk  a  httle  to  old  Glubb,  1  shoul'4  be  able  to  do  better." 


PA  UL's  £r>  ucA  riOiV.  t€i 

''Nonsense,  Dombey,"  said  Miss  Blimber.  "I  couldn't 
hear  of  it.  This  is  not  the  place  for  Glubbs  of  any  kind.  You 
must  take  the  books  down,  I  suppose,  Dombey,  one  by  one, 
and  perfect  yourself  in  the  day's  instalment  of  subject  A,  be- 
fore you  turn  at  all  to  subject  B.  And  now  take  away  the  top 
book,  if  you  please,  Dombey,  and  return  when  you  are  master 
of  the  theme."  , 

Miss  Blimber  expressed  her  opinions  on  the  subject  of 
Paul's  uninstructed  state  with  a  gloomy  delight,  as  if  she  had 
expected  this  result,  and  were  glad  to  find  that  they  must  be  in 
constant  communication.  Paul  withdrew  with  the  top  task,  as 
he  was  told,  and  labored  away  at  it,  down  below ;  sometimes 
remembering  eveiy  word  of  it,  and  sometimes  forgetting  it  all, 
and  everything  else  besides  :  until  at  last  he  ventured  up  stairs 
again  to  repeat  the  lesson,  when  it  was  nearly  all  driven  out  of 
his  head  before  he  began,  by  Miss  Blimber's  shutting  up  the 
book,  and  saying,  "  Go  on,  Dombey !  "  a  proceeding  so  sug- 
gestive of  the  knowledge  inside  of  her,  that  Paul  looked  upon 
the  young  lady  with  consternation,  as  a  kind  of  learned  Guy 
Faux,  or  artificial  Bogle,  stuffed  full  of  scholastic  straw. 

He  acquitted  himself  very  well,  nevertheless ;  and  Miss 
Blimber,  commending  him  as  giving  promise  of  getting  on  fast, 
immediately  provided  him  with  subject  B ;  from  which  he 
passed  to  C,  and  even  D  before  dinner.  It  was  hard  work,  re- 
suming his  studies,  soon  after  dinner  ;  and  he  felt  giddy  and 
confused  and  drowsy  and  dull.  But  all  the  other  young  gen- 
tlemen had  similar  sensations,  and  were  obliged  to  resume  their 
studies  too,  if  there  were  any  comfort  in  that.  It  was  a  wonder 
that  the  great  clock  in  the  hall,  instead  of  being  constant  to  its 
first  inquir}',  never  said,  "  Gentlemen,  we  will  now  resume  our 
studies,"  for  that  phrase  was  often  enough  repeated  in  its 
neighborhood.  The  studies  went  round  like  a  mighty  wheel, 
and  the  young  gentlemen  were  always  stretched  upon  it. 

After  tea  there  were  exercises  again,  and  preparations  for 
next  day  by  candlelight.  And  in  due  course  there  was  bed  j 
where,  but  for  that  resumption  of  the  studies  which  took  place 
in  dreams,  were  rest  and  sweet  forgetfulness. 

Oh  Saturdays  !  Oh  happy  Saturdays,  when  Florence  al- 
ways came  at  noon,  and  never  would,  in  any  weather,  stay 
away,  though  Mrs.  Pipchin  snarled  and  growled,  and  worried  her 
bitterly.  Those  Saturdays  were  Sabbaths  for  at  least  two  little 
Christians  among  all  the  Jews,  and  did  the  holy  Sabbath  work 
of  strengthening  and  knitting  up  a  brother's  and  a  sister's  love. 

Not  even   Sunday  nights — the  )>eavy  Sunday  nights,  whose 


|53  DOM  BEY  ANty  SON: 

shadow  darkened  the  first  waking  burst  cf  light  on  Sunday 
mornings — could  mar  those  precious  Saturdays.  Whether  it 
was  the  great  sea-sliore,  where  they  sat,  and  strolled  together ; 
or  whether  it  was  only  Mrs.  Pipchin's  dull  back  room,  in  which 
she  sang  to  him  so  softly,  with  his  drowsy  head  upon  her  armj 
Paul  never  cared.  It  was  P'lorence.  That  was  all  he  thought 
of.  So,  on  Saturday  nights,  when  the  Doctor's  dark  door  stood 
agape  to  swallow  him  up  for  another  week,  the  time  was  come 
for  taking  leave  of  Florence  ;  no  one  else. 

Mrs.  Wickam  had  been  drafted  home  to  the  house  in  town, 
and  Miss  Nipper,  now  a  smart  young  woman,  had  come  down. 
To  many  a  single  combat  with  Mrs.  Pipchin,  did  Miss  Nipper 
gallantly  devote  herself ;  and  if  ever  Mrs.  Pipchin  in  all  her 
life  had  found  her  match,  she  had  found  it  now.  Miss  Nipper 
threw  away  the  scabbard  the  first  morning  she  arose  in  Vvt%. 
Pipchin's  house.  She  asked  and  gave  no  quarter.  She  said  it 
must  be  war,  and  war  it  was  ;  and  Mrs.  Pipchin  lived  from  that 
time  in  the  midst  of  surprises,  harassings,  and  defiances,  and 
skirmishing  attacks  that  came  bouncing  in  upon  her  from  the 
passage,  even  in  unguarded  moments  of  chops,  and  carried  des- 
olation to  her  very  toast. 

Miss  Nipper  had  returned  one  Sunday  night  with  Florence, 
from  walking  back  with  Paul  to  the  Doctor's,  when  Florence 
took  from  her  bosom  a  little  piece  of  paper,  on  which  she  had 
pencilled  down  some  words. 

"  See  here,  Susan,"  she  said.  "  These  are  the  names  of 
the  little  books  that  Paul  brings  home  to  do  those  long  exer- 
cises with,  when  he  is  so  tired.  I  copied  them  last  night  while 
he  was  writing." 

"  Don't  shew  'em  to  me.  Miss  Floy,  if  you  please,"  returned 
Nipper,  "  I'd  as  soon  see  Mrs.  Pipchin." 

"  I  want  you  to  buy  them  for  me,  Susan,  if  you  will,  to- 
morrow morning.     I  have  money  enough,"  said  Florence. 

"  Why,  goodness  gracious  me.  Miss  Floy,"  returned  Miss 
Nipper,  "  how  can  you  talk  like  that,  when  you  have  books 
upon  books  already,  and  masterses  and  missesses  a  teaching  of 
you  everj-thing  continual,  though  my  belief  is  that  your  Pa, 
Miss  Dombey,  never  would  have  learnt  you  nothing,  never 
would  have  thought  of  it,  unless  you'd  asked  him — when  he 
couldn't  well  refuse  ;  but  giving  consent  when  asked,  and  of- 
fering when  unasked.  Miss,  is  quite  two  things  ;  I  may  not 
have  my  objections  to  a  young  man's  keeping  company  with 
me,  and  when  he  puts  the  question,  may  say  'yes,' but  that'f 
not  saying  '  would  you  be  so  kind  as  like  me.'" 


PA Urs  kDVCA  TION.  163 

•*  But  you  can  buy  me  the  books,  Susan ;  and  you  will,  when 
jrou  know  I  want  them." 

"Well,  Miss,  and  why  do  you  want  'em  ?  "  replied  Nipper  j 
adding,  in  a  lower  voice,  "If  it  was  to  fling  at  Mrs.  Pipchin'a 
head,  I'd  buy  a  cart-load." 

"  I  think  I  could  perhaps  give  Paul  some  help,  Susan,  if  I 
had  these  books,"  said  Florence,  "  and  make  the  coming  week 
a  little  easier  to  him.  At  least  I  want  to  try.  So  buy  them 
for  me,  dear,  and  I  will  never  forget  how  kind  it  was  of  you  to 
do  it  I  " 

It  must  have  been  a  harder  heart  than  Susan  Nipper's  that 
could  have  rejected  the  little  purse  Florence  held  out  with  these 
words,  or  the  gentle  look  of  entreaty  with  which  she  seconded 
her  petition.  Susan  put  the  purse  in  her  pocket  without  reply, 
and  trotted  out  at  once  upon  her  errand. 

The  books  were  not  easy  to  procure  :  and  the  answer  at 
several  shops  was,  either  that  they  were  just  out  of  them,  or 
that  they  never  kept  them,  or  that  they  had  had  a  great  many 
last  month,  or  that  they  expected  a  great  many  next  week.  But 
Susan  was  not  easily  baffled  in  such  an  enterprise  ;  and  having 
entrapped  a  white-haired  youth,  in  a  black  calico  apron,  from  a 
library  where  she  was  known,  to  accompany  her  in  her  quest, 
she  led  him  such  a  life  in  going  up  and  down,  that  he  exerted 
himself  to  the  utmost,  if  it  were  only  to  get  rid  of  her ;  and 
finally  enabled  her  to  return  home  in  triumph. 

With  these  treasures  then,  after  her  own  daily  lessons  were 
over,  Florence  sat  down  at  night  to  track  Paul's  footsteps 
through  the  thorny  ways  of  learning ;  and  being  possessed  o^  a 
naturally  quick  and  sound  capacity,  and  taught  by  that  most 
wonderful  of  masters,  love,  it  was  not  long  before  she  gained 
upon  Paul's  heels,  and  caught  and  passed  him. 

Not  a  word  of  this  was  breathed  to  Mrs.  Pipchin  :  but  many 
a  night  when  they  were  all  in  bed,  and  when  Miss  Nipper,  with 
her  hair  in  papers,  and  herself  asleep  in  some  uncomfortable 
attitude,  reposed  unconscious  by  her  side ;  and  when  the  chink- 
ing ashes  in  the  grate  were  cold  and  gray  ;  and  when  the  candles 
■were  burnt  down  and  guttering  out ; — Florence  tried  so  hard 
to  b«  a  substitute  for  one  small  Dombey,  that  her  fortitude  and 
perseverance  might  have  almost  won  her  a  free  right  to  beat 
the  name  herself. 

And  high  was  her  reward,  when  one  Saturday  evening,  as 
little  Paul  was  sitting  down  as  usual  to  "  resume  his  studies," 
she  sat  down  by  his  side,  and  showed  him  all  that  was  so  rough, 
made  smooth,  and  all  that  was  so  dark,  made  clear  and  plain, 


l64  DOMBEV  AND  .^OM. 

before  him.  It  was  nothing  but  a  startled  look  in  Paul's  wan 
face — a  Hush — a  smile— and  then  a  close  embrace — but  God 
knows  how  her  heart  leaped  up  at  this  rich  payment  for  her 
trouble. 

"  Oh,  Floy  !  "  cried  her  brother.  "  How  I  love  you  !  How 
I  love  you,  Floy !  " 

"  And  I  you,  dear  !  " 

"  Oh  !     I  am  sure  sure  of  that,  Floy." 

He  said  no  more  about  it,  but  all  that  evening  sat  close  by 
her,  very  quiet  ;  and  in  the  night  he  called  out  from  his  little 
room  within  hers,  three  or  four  times,  that  he  loved  her. 

Regularly,  after  that,  Florence  was  prepared  to  sit  down 
with  Paul  on  Saturday  night,  and  patiently  assist  him  through 
so  much  as  they  could  anticipate  together,  of  his  next  week's 
work.  The  cheering  thought  that  he  was  laboring  on  where 
Florence  had  just  toUed  before  him,  would,  of  itself,  have  been 
a  stimulant  to  Paul  in  the  perpetual  resumption  of  his  studies, 
but  coupled  with  the  actual  lightening  of  his  load,  consequent 
on  this  assistance,  it  saved  him,  possibly,  from  sinking  under- 
reath  the  burden  which  the  fair  Cornelia  Blimber  piled  upon 
hir,  back. 

It  was  not  that  Miss  Blimber  meant  to  be  too  hard  upon 
him,  or  that  Doctor  Blimber  meant  to  bear  too  heavily  on  the 
young  gentlemen  in  general.  Cornelia  merely  held  the  faith  in 
which  she  had  been  bred  ;  and  the  Doctor,  in  some  partial  con- 
fusion of  his  ideas,  regarded  the  young  gentlemen  as  if  they 
were  all  Doctors,  and  were  born  grown  up.  Comforted  by  the 
applause  of  the  young  gentlemen's  nearest  relations,  and  urged 
on  by  their  blind  vanity  and  ill-considered  haste,  it  would  have 
been  strange  if  Doctor  Blimber  had  discovered  his  mistake,  or 
trimmed  his  swelling  sails  to  any  other  tack. 

Thus  in  the  case  of  Paul.  When  Doctor  Blimber  said  he 
made  great  progress,  and  was  naturally  clever,  Mr.  Dombey  was 
more  bent  than  ever  on  his  being  forced  and  crammed.  In 
the  case  of  Briggs,  when  Doctor  Blimber  reported  that  he  did 
not  make  great  progress  yet,  and  was  not  naturally  clever, 
Briggs  senior  was  inexorable  in  the  same  purpose.  In  short, 
however  high  and  false  the  temperature  at  which  the  Doctor 
kept  his  hothouse,  the  owners  of  the  plants  were  always  ready 
to  lend  a  helping  hand  at  the  bellows,  and  to  stir  the  fire. 

Such  spirits  as  he  had  in  the  outset,  Paul  soon  lost  of 
course.  But  he  retained  all  that  was  strange,  and  old,  and 
thoughtful  in  his  character  :  and  under  circumstances  so  fav- 
orable to  the  development  of  thosr  tendencies,  became  even 
more  strange,  and  old,  and  ihuugluful,  than  before. 


PAULS  EDUCATION.  ifi^ 

The  only  difference  was,  that  he  kept  his  character  to  him- 
self. He  grew  more  thoughtful  and  reserved,  every  day ;  and 
had  no  such  curiosity  in  any  living  member  of  the  Doctor's 
household,  as  he  had  had  in  Mrs.  Pipchin.  He  loved  to  be  alone, 
and  in  those  short  intervals  when  he  was  not  occupied  with  his 
books,  liked  nothing  so  well  as  wandering  about  the  house  by 
himself,  or  sitting  on  the  stairs,  listening  to  the  great  clock  in 
the  hall.  He  was  intimate  with  all  the  paper-hanging  in  the 
house  ;  saw  things  that  no  one  else  saw  in  the  patterns  ;  found 
out  miniature  tigers  and  lions  running  up  the  bedroom  walls, 
and  squinting  faces  leering  in  the  squares  and  diamonds  of  the 
floor-cloth. 

The  solitary  child  lived  on,  surrounded  by  this  arabesque 
work  of  his  musing  fancy,  and  no  one  understood  him.  Mrs. 
Blimber  thought  him  "odd,"  and  sometimes  the  servants  said 
among  themselves  that  little  Dombey  "  moped ; "  but  that  was 
all. 

Unless  young  Toots  had  some  idea  on  the  subject,  to  the 
expression  of  which  he  was  wholly  unequal.  Ideas,  like  ghosts 
(according  to  the  common  notion  of  ghosts),  must  be  spoken 
to  a  little  before  they  will  explain  themselves ;  and  Toots  had 
long  left  off  asking  any  questions  of  his  own  mind.  Some 
mist  there  may  have  been,  issuing  from  that  leaden  casket,  his 
cranium,  which,  if  it  could  have  taken  shape  and  form,  would 
have  become  a  genie  ;  but  it  could  not ;  and  it  only  so  far  fol- 
lowed the  example  of  the  smoke  in  the  Arabian  story,  as  to  roll 
out  in  a  thick  cloud,  and  there  hang  and  hover.  But  it  left  a 
little  figure  visible  upon  a  lonely  shore,  and  Toots  was  always 
staring  at  it. 

"  How  fire  you  ?  "  he  would  say  to  Paul,  fifty  times  a-day. 

"Quite  well.  Sir,  thank  you,"  Paul  would  answer. 

"  Shake  hands,"  would  be  Toots's  next  advance. 

Which  Paul,  of  course,  would  immediately  do.  Mr.  Toots 
generally  said  again,  after  a  long  interval  of  staring  and  hard 
breathing,  "  How  are  you  ? "  To  which  Paul  again  replied, 
"  Quite  well.  Sir,  thank  you." 

One  evening  Mr.  Toots  was  sitting  at  his  desk,  oppressed 
by  correspondence,  when  a  great  purpose  seemed  to  flash  upon 
him.  He  laid  down  his  pen,  and  went  off  to  seek  Paul,  whom 
he  found  at  last,  after  a  long  search,  looking  through  the 
window  of  his  little  bed-room. 

"  I  say  !  "  cried  Toots,  speaking  the  moment  he  entered  the 
room,  lest  he  should  forget  it  ;  "  what  do  you  think  about  i  " 

"  Oh  !     I  think  about  a  great  many  things,"  replied  Paul 


l66  DOMBF.Y  AXD  son: 

"  Do  you,  though?"  said  Toots,  api^earing  to  consider  that 
fact  in  itself  surprising. 

"  If  you  had  to  die,"  said  Paul,  looking  up  into  his  face — - 

Mr.  Toots  started,  and  seemed  much  disturbed. 

" — Don't  you  think  you  would  rather  die  on  a  moonlight 
night  when  the  sky  was  quite  clear,  and  the  wind  blowing,  as 
it  did  last  night  ?  " 

Mr.  Toots  said,  looking  doubtfully  at  Paul,  and  shaking  his 
head,  that  he  didn't  know  about  that. 

"  Not  blowing,  at  least,"  said  Paul,  "  but  sounding  in  the 
air  like  the  sea  sounds  in  the  shells.  It  was  a  beautiful  night. 
When  I  had  listened  to  the  water  for  a  long  time,  I  got  up  and 
looked  out.  There  was  a  boat  over  there,  in  the  full  light  of 
the  moon  ;  a  boat  with  a  sail." 

The  child  looked  at  him  so  steadfastly,  and  spoke  so 
earnestly,  that  INIr.  Toots,  feeling  himself  called  upon  to  say 
something  about  this  boat,  said,  "  Smugglers."  But  with  an 
impartial  remembrance  of  there  being  two  sides  to  every  ques- 
tion, he  added,  or  "  Preventive." 

"  A  boat  with  a  sail,"  repeated  Paul,  "  in  the  full  light  of 
the  moon.  The  sail  like  an  arm,  all  silver.  It  went  away  into 
the  distance,  and  what  do  you  think  it  seemed  to  do  as  it  moved 
with  the  waves  ?  " 

"  Pitch,"  said  Mr.  Toots. 

"  It  seemed  to  beckon,"  said  the  child,  "  to  beckon  me  to 
come  ! — There  she  is  !     There  she  is  !  " 

Toots  was  almost  beside  himself  with  dismay  at  this  sudden 
exclamation,  after  what  had  gone  before,  and  cried    "  Who  }  " 

"  My  sister  Florence  !  "  cried  Paul,  "  looking  up  here,  and 
waving  her  hand.  She  sees  me — she  sees  me  !  Good-night, 
dear,  good-night,  good-night." 

His  quick  transition  to  a  state  of  unbounded  pleasure,  as 
he  stood  at  his  window,  kissing  and  clapping  his  hands  :  and 
the  way  in  which  the  light  retreated  from  his  features  as  she 
passed  out  of  his  view,  and  left  a  patient  melancholy  on  the 
little  face  :  were  too  remarkable  wholly  to  escape  even  Toots's 
notice.  Their  interview  being  interrupted  at  this  moment  by  a 
visit  from  Mrs.  Pipchin,  who  usually  brought  her  black  skirts 
to  bear  upon  Paul  just  before  dusk,  once  or  twice  a  week, 
Tools  had  no  opportunity  of  improving  the  occasion  ;  but  it 
left  so  marked  an  impression  on  his  mind  that  he  twice  returned, 
after  having  exchanged  the  usual  salutations,  to  ask  Mrs.  Pip- 
chin  how  she  did.  Tiiis  Ihe  irasci])le  old  lady  conceived  to  be 
a  deeply-devised  and  lon^-meditated    nsult,  originating:  in  th.Q 


SHIPPING  INTELLIGENCE  AND  OFEICE  BUSINESS.     167 

diabolical  invention  of  the  weak-eyed  young  man  down  stairs, 
against  whom  she  accordingly  lodged  a  formal  complaint  with 
Doctor  Blimber  that  very  night ;  who  mentioned  to  the  young 
man  that  if  he  ever  did  it  again,  he  should  be  obliged  to  part 
with  him. 

The  evenings  being  longer  now,  Paul  stole  up  to  his  window 
every  evening  to  look  out  for  Florence.  She  always  passed 
and  repassed  at  a  certain  time,  unti!  she  saw  him  ;  and  their 
mutual  recognition  was  a  gleam  of  sunshine  in  Paul's  daily  life. 
Often  after  dark,  one  other  figure  walked  alone  before  the 
Doctor's  house.  He  rarely  joined  them  on  the  Saturday  now. 
He  could  not  bear  it.  He  would  rather  come  unrecognized, 
and  look  up  at  the  windows  where  his  son  was  qualifying  tor  a 
man  ;  and  wait,  and  watch,  and  plan,  and  hope. 

Oh !  could  he  but  have  seen,  or  seen  as  others  did,  the 
slight  spare  boy  above,  watching  the  waves  and  clouds  at  twi- 
light, with  his  earnest  eyes,  and  breasting  the  window  of  his 
solitary  cage  when  birds  Hew  by,  as  if  he  would  have  emulated 
them,  and  soared  away  I 


CHAPTER  Xni. 

SHIPPING    INTELLIGENCE    AND   OFFICE    BUSINESS. 

Mr.  Dombey's  offices  were  in  a  court  where  there  was  an 
old-established  stall  of  choice  fruit  at  the  corner  :  where  per- 
ambulating merchants,  of  both  sexes,  offered  for  sale  at  any 
time  between  the  hours  of  ten  and  five,  slippers,  pocket-books, 
sponges,  dogs'  collars,  and  Windsor  soap,  and  sometimes  a 
pointer  or  an  oil-painting. 

The  pointer  always  came  that  way,  with  a  view  to  the  Stock 
Exchange,  where  a  sporting  taste  (originating  generally  in  bets 
of  new  hats)  is  much  in  vogue.  The  other  commodities  were 
addressed  to  the  general  public  ;  but  they  were  never  offered 
by  the  vendors  to  Mr.  Dombey.  When  he  appeared,  the 
dealers  in  those  wares  fell  ofif  respectfully.  I'he  principal 
slipper  and  dogs'  collar  man — who  considered  himself  a  public 
character,  and  whose  portrait  was  screwed  on  to  an  artist's 
door  in  Cheapside — threw  up  his  forefinger  to  the  brim  of  his 
hat  as  Mr.  Dombey  went  by.     The  ticket-porter,  if  he  were  not 


lC8  DdMliEV  AXJ)  SOS\ 

Ji6scnt  on  a  job,  always  ran  officiously  before  to  open  Mr. 
Dombey's  office  door  as  wide  as  possible,  and  hold  it  open, 
with  his  hat  off,  while  he  entered. 

The  clerks  within  were  not  a  whit  behind-hand  in  their 
demonstrations  of  respect.  A  solemn  hush  prevailed,  as  Mr. 
Dombey  passed  through  the  outer  office.  The  wit  of  the 
Counting-House  became  in  a  moment  as  mute,  as  the  row  of 
leathern  fire-buckets  hanging  up  behind  him.  Such  vapid  and 
flat  daylight  as  filtered  through  the  ground-glass  windows  and 
skylights,  leaving  a  black  sediment  upon  the  panes,  showed 
the  books  and  papers,  and  the  figures  bending  over  them,  envel- 
oped in  a  studious  gloom,  and  as  much  abstracted  in  appear- 
ance, from  the  world  without,  as  if  they  were  assembled  at  the 
bottom  of  the  sea  ;  while  a  mouldy  little  strong  room  in  the 
obscure  prospective,  where  a  shady  lamp  was  always  burning, 
might  have  represented  the  cavern  of  some  ocean-monster, 
looking  on  with  a  red  eye  at  these  mysteries  of  the  deep. 

When  Perch  the  messenger,  whose  place  was  on  a  little 
bracket,  like  a  timepiece,  saw  Mr.  Dcmbey  come  in — or  rather 
when  he  felt  that  he  was  coming,  for  he  had  usually  an  in- 
stinctive sense  of  his  approach — he  hurried  into  Mr.  Dombey's 
i-oom,  stirred  the  fire,  quarried  fresh  coals  from  the  bowels  of 
the  coal  box,  hung  the  newspaper  to  air  upon  the  fender,  put 
the  chair  ready,  and  the  screen  in  its  place,  and  was  round 
upon  his  heel  on  the  instant  of  Mr.  Dombey's  entrance,  to 
take  his  great  coat  and  hat,  and  hang  them  up.  Then  Perch 
took  the  newspaper,  and  gave  it  a  turn  or  two  in  his  hands 
before  the  fire,  and  laid  it,  deferentially,  at  Mr.  Dombey's  el- 
bow. And  so  little  objection  had  Perch  to  doing  deferential 
in  the  last  degree,  that  if  he  might  have  laid  himself  at  Mr. 
Dombey's  feet,  or  might  have  called  him  by  some  such  title  as 
used  to  be  bestowed  upon  the  Caliph  Plaroun  Alraschid,  he 
would  have  been  all  the  better  pleased. 

As  this  honor  would  have  been  an  innovation  and  an  ex- 
periment. Perch  was  fain  to  content  himself  by  expressing  as 
well  as  he  could,  in  his  manner,  you  are  the  light  of  my  eyes. 
You  are  the  Prcath  of  my  Soul.  You  are  the  commander  of  the 
Faithful  Perch  !  A\'ith  tliis  imperfect  happiness  to  cheer  him,  he 
would  shut  the  door  softly,  walk  away  on  tiptoe,  and  leave  his 
great  chief  to  be  stared  at,  through  a  dome-shaped  window  in  the 
leads,  by  ugly  chimney  pots  and  backs  of  houses,  and  espe- 
cially by  the  bold  window  of  a  hair-cutting  saloon  on  a  first  floor 
where  a  waxen  effigy,  bald  as  a  Mussulman  in  the  morning, 
>nd  covered  after  eleven  o'clock  in  the  day,  with  luxuriant  hair 


S/flPPIN'G  INTELLIGENCE  AND  OFFICE  BUSINESS.     i6q 

and  whiskers  in  the  latest  Christian  fashion,  showed  him  the 
wrong  side  of  its  head  for  ever. 

Between  Mr.  Dombey  and  the  common  world,  as  it  was 
accessible  through  the  medium  of  the  outer  office — to  which 
Mr.  Dombey's  presence  in  his  own  room  may  be  said  to  have 
struck  like  damp,  or  cold  air — there  were  two  degrees  of  de- 
scent. Mr.  Carker  in  his  own  office  was  the  first  step  ;  Mr. 
Morfin  in  his  own  office,  was  the  second.  Each  of  these  gen- 
tlemen occupied  a  little  chamber  like  a  bath-room,  opening 
from  the  passage  outside  Mr.  Dombey's  door.  Mr.  Carker, 
as  Grand  Vizier,  inhabited  the  room  that  was  nearest  to  the 
Sultan.  Mr.  Morfin,  as  an  officer  of  inferior  state,  inhabited 
the  room  that  was  nearest  to  the  clerks. 

The  gentleman  last  mentioned  was  a  cheerful-looking,  hazel- 
eyed  elderly  bachelor :  gravely  attired,  as  to  his  upper  man, 
in  black  ;  and  as  to  his  legs,  in  pepper  and  salt  color.  His 
dark  hair  was  just  touched  here  and  there  with  specks  of  gray, 
as  though  the  tread  of  Time  had  splashed  it ;  and  his  whisk- 
ers were  already  white.  He  had  a  mighty  respect  for  Mr. 
Dombey,  and  rendered  him  due  homage  ;  but  as  he  was  of  a 
genial  temper  himself,  and  never  wholly  at  his  ease  in  that 
stately  presence,  he  was  disquieted  by  no  jealousy  of  the  many 
conferences  enjoyed  by  Mr.  Carker,  and  felt  a  secret  satisfac- 
tion in  having  duties  to  discharge,  which  rarely  exposed  him 
to  be  singled  out  for  such  distinction.  He  was  a  great  musi- 
cal amateur  in  his  way — after  business  ;  and  had  a  paternal 
affection  for  his  violoncello,  which  was  once  in  every  week 
transported  from  Islington  his  place  of  abode,  to  a  certain 
club-room  hard  by  the  Bank,  where  quartettes  of  the  most 
tormenting  and  excruciating  nature  were  executed  every 
Wednesday  evening  by  a  private  party. 

Mr.  Carker  was  a  gentleman  thirty-eight  or  forty  years  old, 
of  a  florid  complexion,  and  with  two  unbroken  rows  of  glisten- 
ing teeth,  whose  regularity  and  whiteness  were  quite  distress- 
ing. It  was  impossible  to  escape  the  observation  of  them, 
for  he  showed  them  whenever  he  spoke  :  and  bore  so  wide  a 
smile  upon  his  countenance  (a  smile,  however,  very  rarely, 
indeed,  extending  beyond  his  mouth),  that  there  was  something 
in  it  like  the  snarl  of  a  cat.  He  affected  a  stiff  white  cravat, 
after  the  example  of  his  principal  and  was  always  closely  but- 
toned up  and  tightly  dressed.  His  manner  towards  Mr.  Dom- 
bey was  deeply  conceived  and  perfectly  expressed.  He  was 
familiar  with  him,  in  the  very  extremity  of  his  sense  of  the 
distance  between  them.     "  Mr.  Dombey.  to  a  pian  rsx  youl 


170 


DO.VBEY  AXD  SO.V. 


position  from  a  man  in  mine,  there  is  no  show  of  subservience 
compatible  with  the  transaction  of  business  between  us,  that 
I  should  think  sufficient.  I  frankly  tell  you,  Sir,  I  gi\e  it  up 
altogether.  I  feel  that  I  could  not  satisfy  my  own  mind  ;  and 
Heaven  knows,  Mr.  Dombey,  you  can  afford  to  dispense  with 
the  endeavor."  If  he  had  carried  these  words  about  with 
him,  printed  on  a  placard,  and  had  constantly  offered  it  to 
Mr.  Dombey 's  perusal  on  the  breast  of  his  coat,  he  could  not 
have  been  more  explicit  than  he  was. 

This  was  Carker  the  Manager.  Mr.  Carker  the  Junior, 
Walter's  friend,  was  his  brother  ;  two  or  three  years  older  than 
he,  but  widely  removed  in  station.  The  younger  brother's 
post  was  on  the  top  of  the  official  ladder  ;  the  elder  brother's 
at  the  bottom.  The  elder  brother  never  gained  a  stave,  or 
raised  his  foot  to  mount  one.  Young  men  passed  above  his 
head,  and  rose  and  rose  ;  but  he  was  always  at  the  bottom. 
He  was  quite  resigned  to  occupy  that  low  condition  :  never 
complained  of  it :  and  certainly  never  hoped  to  escape  from  it. 

"How  do  you  do  this  morning?"  said  Mr.  Carker  the 
Manager,  entering  Mr.  Dombey's  room  soon  after  his  arrival 
one  day  :  with  a  bundle  of  papers  in  his  hand. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Carker  .?  "  said  Mr.  Dombey,  rising  from 
his  chair,  and  standing  with  his  back  to  the  fire.  "Have  you 
any  thing  there  for  me  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  that  1  need  trouble  you,"  returned  Carker, 
turning  over  the  papers  in  his  hand.  "  You  have  a  committee 
to-day  at  three,  you  know." 

"And  one   at  three,  three  quarters,"  added  Mr.  Dombey. 

"Catch  you  forgetting  anything  !  "  exclaimed  Carker,  still 
turning  over  his  papers.  "  If  Mr.  Paul  inherits  your  memory, 
he'll  be  a  troublesome  customer  in  the  house.  One  of  you  is 
enough." 

"  You  have  an  accurate  memory  of  your  own,"  said  Mr. 
Dombey. 

"Oh  !  /.'"  returned  the  manager.  "It's  the  only  capital 
of  a  man  like  wr." 

Mr  Dombey  did  not  look  less  pompous  or  at  all  displeased, 
as  he  stood  leaning  against  the  chimney-piece,  surveying  his 
(of  course  unconscious)  clerk,  from  head  to  foot.  The  stitT- 
ness  and  nicety  of  Mr.  Carker's  dress,  and  a  certain  arrogance 
of  manner,  either  natural  to  him  or  iinitated  from  a  pattern 
not  far  off,  gave  great  additional  effect  to  his  humility.  He 
seemed  a  man  wlio  would  contend  against  the  power  that 
vanquished  him,  if  he  could  but  who  was  utterly  borne  dowQ 
by  the  greatness  and  .suneriority  of  Mi;  Dombey. 


SHIPPING  INTELLIGENCE  AND  OFFICE  BUSINESS,     j^f 

"  Is  Morfin  here  ? "  asked  Mr.  Dombey  after  a  shovt 
pause,  during  which  Mr.  Carker  had  been  fluttering  his  papers, 
and  muttering  little  abstracts  of  their  contents  to  himself. 

"  Morfin's  here,"  he  answered,  looking  up  with  his  widest 
and  most  sudden  smile  ;  "  humming  musical  recollections — 
of  his  last  night's  quartette  party,  I  suppose  —  through  the 
walls  between  us,  and  driving  me  half  mad.  I  wish  he'd 
make  a  bonfire  of  his  violoncello,  and  burn  his  music  books 
in  it." 

"You  respect  nobody,  Carker,  I  think,"  said  Mr.  Dombey 

"  No  ?  "  inquired  Carker,  with  another  wide  and  most  feline 
show  of  his  teeth,  "  Well !  Not  many  people  I  believe.  I 
wouldn't  answer  perhaps,"  he  murmured,  as  if  he  were  only 
thinking  it,  "  for  more  than  one." 

A  dangerous  quality,  if  real  ;  and  a  not  less  dangerous  one, 
if  feigned.  But  Mr.  Dombey  hardly  seemed  to  think  so,  as  he 
still  stood  with  his  back  to  the  fire,  drawn  up  to  his  full  height, 
and  looking  at  his  head-clerk  with  a  dignified  composure,  in 
which  there  seemed  to  lurk  a  stronger  latent  sense  of  power 
than  usual. 

"Talking  of  Morfin,"  resumed  Mr.  Carker,  taking  out  one 
paper  from  the  rest,  "  he  reports  a  junior  dead  in  the  agency 
at  Barbados,  and  proposes  to  reserve  a  passage  in  the  Son  and 
Heir — she'll  sail  in  a  month  or  so — for  the  successor.  You 
don't  care  who  goes,  I  suppose  ?  We  have  nobody  of  that  sort 
here." 

Mr.  Dombey  shook  his  head  with  supreme  indifference. 

"  It's  no  very  precious  appointment,"  observed  Mr.  Carker, 
taking  up  a  pen,  with  which  to  endorse  a  memorandum  on  the 
back  of  the  paper.  "  I  hope  he  may  bestow  it  on  some  orphan 
nephew  of  a  musical  friend.  It  may  perhaps  stop  his  fiddle- 
playing,  if  he  has  a  gift  that  way.     Who's  that !     Come  in  !  " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Carker.  I  didn't  know  you  were 
here.  Sir,"  answered  Walter,  appearing  with  some  letters  in  his 
hand,  unopened,  and  newly  arrived.  "  Mr.  Carker  the  Junior, 
Sir—" 

At  the  mention  of  this  name,  Mr.  Carker  the  Manager  was, 
or  affected  to  be,  touched  to  the  quick  with  shame  and  humil- 
iation. He  cast  his  eyes  full  on  Mr.  Dombey  with  an  altered 
and  apologetic  look,  abased  them  on  the  ground,  and  remained 
for  a  moment  without  speaking. 

"  I  thought.  Sir,"  he  said  suddenly  and  angrily,  turning  on 
Walter,  "  that  you  had  been  before  requested  not  to  drag  Mr. 
Carker  the  Junior  into  your  conversation." 


72 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


"  I  beg  your  pardon,"'  returned  Walter.  "  I  was  only  going 
to  say  that  ISIr.  Carker  the  Junior  had  told  me  he  believed  you 
were  gone  out,  or  I  should  not  have  knocked  at  the  door  when 
you  were  engaged  with  Mr.  Dombey.  These  are  letters  for 
Mr.  Dombey,  Sir." 

"  Very  well,  Sir,"  returned  Mr.  Carker  the  Manager,  pluck- 
ing them  sharply  from  his  hand.     "  Go  about  your  business." 

But  in  taking  them  with  so  little  ceremony,  Mr.  Carker 
dropped  one  on  the  floor,  and  did  not  see  what  he  had  done ; 
neither  did  Mr.  Dombey  observe  the  letter  lying  near  his  feet. 
Walter  hesitated  for  a  moment,  thinking  that  one  or  other  of 
them  would  notice  it ;  but  finding  that  neither  did,  he  stopped, 
came  back,  picked  it  up,  and  laid  it  himself  on  Mr.  Dombey's 
desk.  The  letters  were  post-letters  ;  and  it  happened  that  the 
one  in  question  was  Mrs.  Pipchin's  regular  report,  directed  as 
usual — for  Mrs.  Pipchin  was  but  an  indifferent  pen-woman — by 
Florence.  Mr.  Dombey,  having  his  attention  silently  called  to 
this  letter  by  Walter,  started,  and  looked  fiercely  at  him,  as  if 
he  believed  that  he  had  purposely  selected  it  from  all  the  rest. 

"  You  can  leave  the  room,  Sir ! "  said  ]\Ir.  Dombey, 
haughtily. 

He  crushed  the  letter  in  his  hand  ;  and  having  watched 
Walter  out  at  the  door,  put  it  in  his  pocket  without  breaking 
the  seal. 

"  You  want  somebody  to  send  to  the  AVest  Indies,  you  were 
saying,"  observed  Mr.  Dombey,  hurriedly. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Carker. 

"  Send  young  Gay." 

"  Good,  very  good  indeed.  Nothing  easier,"  said  Mr.  Car- 
ker, without  any  show  of  surprise,  and  taking  up  the  pen  to  re- 
endorse  the  letter,  as  coolly  as  he  had  done  before.  "  *  Send 
young  Gay.'  " 

"  Call  him  back,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

Mr,  Carker  was  quick  to  do  so,  and  Walter  was  quick  to 
return. 

"  Gay,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  turning  a  little  to  look  at  him 
over  his  shoulder.     "  Here  is  a — " 

"  An  opening,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  with  his  mouth  stretched 
to  the  utmost. 

"  In  the  West  Indies.  At  Barbados.  I  am  going  to  send 
you,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  scorning  to  embellish  the  bare  truth, 
"  to  fill  a  junior  situation  in  the  counting-house  at  Barbados. 
Let  your  uncle  know  from  me,  that  I  have  chosen  you  to  go  to 
the  West  Indies." 


i^mPP/NG  INTELLIGENCE  AND  OFFICE  BUSINESS. 


173 


Walter's  breath  was  so  completely  taken  away  by  his  aston- 
ishment, that  he  could  hardly  find  enough  for  the  repetition  of 
the  words  "  West  Indies." 

"  Somebody  must  go,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "  and  you  are 
young  and  healthy,  and  your  uncle's  circumstances  are  not 
good.  Tell  your  uncle  that  you  are  appointed.  You  will  not 
go  yet.  There  will  be  an  interval  of  a  month — or  two  per- 
haps." 

"  Shall  I  remain  there,  Sir?  "  inquired  Walter. 

"  Will  you  remain  there,  Sir  !  "  repeated  Mr.  Dombey,  turn- 
ing a  little  more  round  towards  him.  "  What  do  you  mean? 
What  does  he  mean,  Carker.?  " 

"Live  there.  Sir,"  faltered  Walter. 

"  Certainly,"  returned  Mr.  Dombey. 

Walter  bowed. 

"That's  all,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  resuming  his  letters.  "You 
will  explain  to  him  in  good  time  about  the  usual  outfit  and  so 
fonh,  Carker,  of  course.     He  needn't  wait,  Carker." 

"  You  needn't  wait.  Gay,"  observed  Mr.  Carker :  bare  to 
the  gums. 

"  Unless,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  stopping  in  his  reading  with- 
out looking  off  the  letter,  and  seeming  to  listen.  "  Unless  he 
has  something  to  say." 

"  No,  Sir,"  returned  Walter  agitated  and  confused,  and  al- 
most stunned,  as  an  infinite  variety  of  pictures  presented  them- 
selves to  his  mind  ;  among  which  Captain  Cuttle,  in  his  glazed 
hat,  transfixed  with  astonishment  at  Mrs.  MacStinger's,  and 
his  uncle  bemoaning  his  loss  in  the  little  back  parlor,  held 
prominent  places.  "  I  hardly  know — I — I  am  much  obliged, 
Sir." 

"  He  needn't  wait,  Carker,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

And  as  Mr.  Carker  again  echoed  the  words,  and  also  col- 
lected his  papers  as  if  he  were  going  away  too,  Walter  felt  that 
his  lingering  any  longer  would  Idc  an  unpardonable  intrusion — • 
especially  as  he  had  nothing  to  say — and  therefore  walked  out 
quite  confounded. 

Going  along  the  passage,  with  the  mingled  consciousness 
and  helplessness  of  a  dream,  he  heard  Mr.  Dombey's  door  shut 
again,  as  Mr.  Carker  came  out :  and  immediately  afterwards 
that  gentleman  called  to  him. 

"  Bring  your  friend  Mr.  Carker  the  Junior  to  my  room,  Sir, 
if  you  please." 

Walter  went  to  the  outer  office  and  apprised  Mr.  Carker  the 
Junior  of  his  errand,  who  accordingly  came  out  from  behind  a 


174  DOMBEY  AND  SON: 

partition  wliere  he  sat  alone  in  one  corner,  and   returned  with 
him  to  the  room  of  Mr.  Carker  the  Manager. 

That  gentleman  was  standing  with  his  back  to  the  fire,  and 
his  hands  under  his  coat-tails,  looking  over  his  white  cravat,  as 
unpromisingly  as  Mr.  Dombey  himself  could  have  looked.  He 
received  them  without  any  change  in  his  attitude  or  softening 
of  his  harsh  aiKl  black  expression  :  merely  signing  to  Walter  tc 
close  the  door, 

"John  Carker,"  said  the  Manager,  when  this  was  done, 
turning  suddenly  upon  his  brother,  with  his  two  rows  of  teeth 
bristling  as  if  he  would  have  bitten  him,  "  what  is  the  league 
between  you  and  this  young  man,  in  virtue  of  which  I  am 
haunted  and  hunted  by  the  mention  of  your  name }  Is  it  not 
enough  for  you,  John  Carker,  that  I  am  your  near  relation,  and 
can't  detach  myself  from  that — " 

"  Say  disgrace,  James,"  interposed  the  other  in  a  low  voice, 
finding  that  he  stammered  for  a  word.  "  You  mean  it,  and 
have  reason,  say  disgrace." 

"  From  that  disgrace,"  assented  his  brother  with  keen  em- 
phasis, "  but  is  the  fact  to  be  blurted  out  and  trumpeted,  and 
proclaimed  continually  in  the  presence  of  the  very  House  !  in 
moments  of  confidence  loo  ?  Do  you  think  your  name  is  cal- 
culated to  harmonize  in  this  place  with  trust  and  confidence, 
John  Carker  !  " 

"  No,"  returned  the  other.  "  No,  James.  God  knows  I 
have  no  such  thought." 

"  What  is  your  thought,  then  ? "  said  his  brother,  "  and 
why  do  you  thrust  yourself  in  my  way  ?  Haven't  you  injured 
me  enough  already  1  " 

"  I  have  never  injured  you,  James,  wilfully." 

"  You  are  my  brother,"  said  the  Manager.  "  That's  injury 
enough." 

"  I  wish  I  could  undo  it,  James." 

"  I  wish  you  could  and  would." 

During  tliis  conversation,  Walter  had  looked  from  one 
brother  to  the  other  with  pain  and  amazement.  He  who  was 
the  Senior  in  years,  and  Junior  in  the  house,  stood,  with  his 
eyes  cast  upon  the  ground,  and  his  head  bowed,  humbly  listen- 
ing to  the  reproaches  of  the  other.  Though  tliese  were  ren 
dcred  very  bitter  by  the  tone  and  look  with  which  they  were  ac- 
companied, and  by  the  presence  of  Waller  whom  they  so  much 
surprised  and  shocked,  he  entered  no  other  protest  against 
them  than  by  slightly  raising  his  right  hand  in  a  deprecatory 
manner,  as  if  he  would  iiave  said,  "  Spare  mo  1  "     So,  liad  they 


SmPrWG  lAfTELUGENCi':  AND  Ofi-lCE  h  O'SLVEs'S'. 


17S 


been  blows,  and  he  a  brave  man,  under  strong  constraint,  and 
weakened  by  bodily  suffering,  he  might  have  stood  before  the 
executioner. 

Generous  and  quick  in  all  his  emotions,  and  regarding  him- 
self as  the  innocent  occasion  of  these  taunts,  Walter  now  struck 
in,  with  all  the  earnestness  he  felt. 

"  Mr.  Carker,"  he  said,  addressing  himself  to  the  Manager. 
"  Indeed,  indeed,  this  is  my  fault  solel}'.  In  a  kind  of  heedless 
ness,  for  which  I  cannot  blame  myself  enough,  I  have,  I  have  no 
coubt,  mentioned  Mr.  Carker  the  Junior  much  oftener  than 
was  necessary  ;  and  have  allowed  his  name  sometimes  to  slip 
through  my  lips,  when  it  was  against  your  express  wish.  But 
it  has  been  my  own  mistake.  Sir.  We  have  never  exchanged 
one  word  upon  the  subject — very  few,  indeed,  on  any  subject. 
And  it  has  not  been,"  added  Walter,  after  a  moment's  pause, 
"  all  heedlessness  on  my  part,  Sir ;  for  I  have  felt  an  interest  in 
Mr.  Carker  ever  since  I  have  been  here,  and  have  hardly  been 
able  to  help  speaking  of  him  sometimes,  when  I  have  thought 
of  him  so  much  !  " 

Walter  said  this  from  his  soul,  and  with  the  very  breath  of 
honor.  For  he  looked  upon  the  bowed  head,  and  the  down- 
cast eyes,  and  u  j^riised  hand,  and  thought,  "  I  have  felt  it ; 
and  why  should  I  not  avow  it  in  behalf  of  this  unfriended, 
broken  man  !  " 

"  In  truth,  you  have  avoided  me,  Mr.  Carker,"  said  Walter, 
with  the  tears  rising  to  his  eyes  ;  so  true  was  his  compassion. 
"  I  know  it,  to  my  disappointment  and  regret.  When  I  first 
came  here,  and  ever  since,  I  am  sure  I  have  tried  to  be  as  much 
your  friend,  as  one  of  my  age  could  presume  to  be  ;  but  it  has 
been  of  no  use." 

"  And  observe,"  said  the  Manager,  taking  him  up  quickly, 
"it  will  be  of  still  less  use.  Gay,  if  you  persist  in  forcing  Mr. 
John  Carker  s  name  on  people's  attention.  That  is  not  the 
way  to  befriend  Mr.  John  Carker.     Ask  him  if  he  thinks  it  is." 

"  It  is  no  service  to  me,"  said  the  brother.  "  It  only  leads 
to  such  a  conversation  as  the  present,  which  I  need  not  say  I 
could  have  well  spared.  No  one  can  be  a  better  friend  to  me  :  " 
he  spoke  here  very  distinctly,  as  if  he  would  impress  it  upon 
Walter  :  "  than  in  forgetting  me,  and  leaving  me  to  go  my  way, 
unquestioned  and  unnoticed." 

"  Your  memory  not  being  retentive,  Gay,  of  what  you  are 
told  by  others,"  said  Mr.  Carker  the  Manager,  warming  him- 
■■elf  with  great  and  increased  satisfaction,  "  I  thought  it  well 
that  you  should  be  told  this  from  the  best  authority,"  noddiu^ 


tf6  liOMBE  V  AND  SOjV. 

towards  his  brother.  "  You  are  not  Hkely  to  forget  it  noWj  \ 
hope.     That's  all,  Gay.     You  can  go." 

Walter  passed  out  at  the  door,  and  was  about  to  close  it 
after  him,  when,  hearing  the  voice  of  the  brothers  again,  and 
also  the  mention  of  his  own  name,  he  stood  irresolutely,  with 
his  hand  upon  the  lock,  and  the  door  ajar,  uncertain  whether 
to  return  or  go  away.  Jn  this  position  he  could  not  help  over- 
hearing what  followed. 

"Think  of  me  more  leniently,  if  you  can,  James,"  said  John 
Carker,  "when  I  tell  you  I  have  had — how  could  I  help  hav- 
ing, with  my  history,  written  here" — striking  himself  upon  the 
breast — "  my  whole  heart  awakened  by  my  observation  of  that 
boy,  Walter  Gay.  I  saw  in  him  when  he  first  came  here,  al- 
most my  other  self." 

"  Your  other  self !  "  repeated  the  Manager,  disdainfully. 

"  Not  as  I  am,  but  as  I  was  when  I  first  came  here  too ;  as 
sanguine,  giddy,  youthful,  inexperienced  ;  flushed  with  the  same 
restless  and  adventurous  fancies  ;  and  full  of  the  same  quali- 
ties, fraught  with  the  same  capacity  of  leading  on  to  good  or 
evil." 

'•  I  hope  not,"  said  his  brother,  with  some  hidden  and  sar- 
castic meaning  in  his  tone. 

"  You  strike  me  sharply  ;  and  your  hand  is  steady,  and 
your  thrust  is  very  deep,"  returned  the  other,  speaking  (or  so 
Walter  thought)  as  if  some  cruel  weapon  actually  stabbed  him 
as  he  spoke.  "  I  imagined  all  this  when  he  was  a  boy.  I  be- 
lieved it.  It  was  a  truth  to  me.  I  saw  him  lightly  walking  on 
the  edge  of  an  unseen  gulf  where  so  many  others  walk  with 
equal  gayety,  and  from  which — " 

"  The  old  excuse,"  interrupted  his  brother,  as  he  stirred 
the  fire,     "  So  many.     Go  on.     Say,  so  many  fall." 

"  From  which  one  traveller  fell/'  returned  the  other,  "who 
set  forward,  on  his  way,  a  boy  like  him.  and  missed  his  footing 
more  and  more,  and  slipped  a  little  and  a  little  lower,  and  went 
on  stumbling  still,  until  he  fell  headlong  and  found  himself 
below  a  shattered  man.  Think  what"  I  sufTered,  when  I 
watched  that  boy." 

"You  have  only  yourself  to  thank  for  it,"  returned  the 
brother, 

"Only  myself,"  he  assented  with  a  sigh.  "I  don't  seek  to 
divide  the  blame  or  shame." 

"  You  /ia7'c  divided  the  shame,"  James  Carker  muttered 
through  his  teeth.  And  through  so  many  and  such  close  teetil 
he  could  mutter  well. 


SHIPPING  INTELLIGENCE  AND  OFFICE  BUSINESS.     17) 

"  Ah,  James,"  returned  his  brother,  speaking  foi  the  first 
time  in  an  accent  of  reproach,  and  seeming,  by  the  sound  of 
his  voice,  to  have  covered  his  face  with  his  hands,  "  I  have 
been,  since  then,  a  useful  foil  to  you.  You  have  trodden  on 
me  freely  in  your  clim.bing  up.  Don't  spurn  me  with  your 
heel ! " 

A  silence  ensued.  After  a  time,  Mr.  Carker  the  Managei 
was  heard  rustling  among  his  papers,  as  if  he  had  resolved  to 
bring  the  interview  to  a  conclusion.  At  the  same  time  his 
brother  withdrew  nearer  to  the  door. 

"  That's  all,"  he  said.  "  I  watched  him  with  such  trembling 
and  such  fear,  as  was  some  little  punishment  to  me,  until  he 
passed  the  place  where  I  first  fell  ;  and  then,  though  I  had 
been  his  father,  I  believe  I  never  could  have  thanked  God  more 
devoutly.  I  didn't  dare  to  warn  him,  and  advise  him  ;  but  if  I 
had  seen  direct  cause,  I  would  have  shown  him  my  example. 
I  was  afraid  to  be  seen  speaking  with  him,  lest  it  should  be 
thought  I  did  him  harm,  and  tempted  him  to  evil,  and  cor- 
rupted him  :  or  lest  I  really  should.  There  may  be  such  conta- 
gion in  me  ;  I  don't  know.  Piece  out  my  history,  in  connection 
with  young  Walter  Gay,  and  what  he  has  made  me  feel ;  and 
think  of  me  more  leniently,  James,  if  you  can." 

With  these  words  he  came  out  to  where  Walter  was  stand- 
ing. He  turned  a  little  paler  when  he  saw  him  there,  and 
paler  yet  when  Walter  caught  him  by  the  hand,  and  said  in  a 
whisper  : 

"  Mr.  Carker,  pray  let  me  thank  you  !  Let  me  say  how 
much  I  feel  for  you !  How  sorry  I  am,  to  have  been  the  un- 
happy cause  of  all  this  !  How  I  almost  look  upon  you  now  as 
my  protector  and  guardian  !  How  very,  very  much,  I  feel 
obliged  to  you  and  pity  you  !  "  said  Walter  squeezing  both  his 
hands,  and  hardly  knowing,  in  his  agitation,  what  he  did  or 
said. 

Mr.  Morfin's  room  being  close  at  hand  and  empty,  and  the 
door  wide  open,  they  moved  thither  by  one  accord  :  the  passage 
being  seldom  free  from  some  one  passing  to  or  fro.  When  they 
were  there,  and  Walter  saw  in  Mr.  Carker's  face  some  traces  of 
the  emotion  within,  he  almost  felt  as  if  he  had  never  seen  the 
face  before  ;  it  was  so  greatly  changed. 

"  Walter,"  he  said,  laying  his  hand  on  his  shoulder.  "  I 
am  far  removed  from  you,  and  may  I  ever  be.  Do  you  know 
what  I  am  .''  " 

"  What  you  are  1  "  appeared  to  hang  on  Walter's  lips,  as  be 
regarded  him  attentively. 

18 


IjS  DOMBE Y  AND  SOl^. 

"  It  was  begun,"  said  Carker,  "  before  my  twenty-first  birth- 
day— led  up  to,  long  before,  but  not  begun  till  near  that  time 
I  had  robbed  them  when  1  came  of  age.  I  robbed  them  after- 
wards. Before  my  twenty-second  birthday,  it  was  all  found 
out ;  and  then,  Walter,  from  all  men's  society,  I  died." 

Again  his  last  few  words  hung  trembling  upon  Walter's 
lips,  but  he  could  neither  utter  them,  nor  any  of  his  own. 

"The  House  was  very  good  to  me.  May  Heaven  reward 
the  old  man  for  his  forbearance  !  This  one,  too,  his  son,  who 
was  then  newly  in  the  firm,  where  I  had  held  great  trust !  I 
was  called  into  that  room  which  is  now  his — I  have  never  en- 
tered it  since — and  came  out,  what  you  know  me.  For  many 
years  I  sat  in  my  present  s-eat,  alone  as  now,  but  then  a  known 
and  recognized  example  to  the  rest.  They  were  all  merciful  to 
me,  and  I  lived.  Time  has  altered  that  part  of  my  poor  expia- 
tion ;  and  I  think,  except  the  three  heads  of  the  House  there 
is  no  one  here  who  knows  my  story  rightly.  Before  the  little 
boy  grows  up,  and  has  it  told  to  him,  my  corner  may  be  vacant. 
I  would  rather  that  it  might  be  so  !  This  is  the  only  change 
to  me  since  that  day,  when  I  left  all  youth,  and  hope,  and  good 
men's  company,  behind  me  in  that  room.  God  bless  you,  Wal- 
ter !  Keep  you,  and  all  dear  to  you,  in  honesty,  or  strike  them 
dead  !  " 

Some  recollection  of  his  trembling  from  head  to  foot,  as  if 
with  excessive  cold,  and  of  his  bursting  into  tears,  was  all  that 
Walter  could  add  to  this,  when  he  tried  to  recall  exactly  what 
had  passed  between  them. 

VVhen  Walter  saw  him  next,  he  was  bending  over  his  desk 
in  his  old  silent,  drooping,  humbled  way.  Then,  observing  him 
at  his  work,  and  feeling  how  resolved  he  evidently  was  that  no 
further  intercourse  should  arise  between  them,  and  thinking 
again  and  again  on  all  he  had  seen  and  heard  that  morning  in 
so  short  a  time,  in  connection  with  the  history  of  both  the 
Carkers,  Walter  could  hardly  believe  that  he  was  under  orders 
for  the  West  Indies,  and  would  soon  be  lost  to  Uncle  Sol,  and 
Captain  Cuttle,  and  to  glimpses  few  and  far  between  of  Plorence 
Dombey — no,  he  meant  Paul — and  to  all  he  loved,  and  liked, 
and  looked  for,  in  his  daily  life. 

But  it  was  true,  and  the  news  had  already  penetrated  to  the 
outer  office  ;  for  wliile  he  sat  with  a  heavy  heart,  pondering  on 
these  things,  and  resting  his  head  upon  his  arm,  Perch  the  mes- 
senger, descending  from  his  mahogany  bracket,  and  jogging  his 
elbow,  begged  his  panlon,  but  wished  to  say  in  his  ear.  Did  he 
thini;  ])c  90uld  anan^e  to  send  home  to  England  a  jar  of  pre- 


Paul  groivs  moke  and  moke  old-fashioned.    17^ 

served   Ginger,  cheap,   for  Mrs.   Perch's  own   eating,  in  th3 
course  of  her  recovery  from  her  next  confinement  ? 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

PAUL     GROWS     MORE     AND     MORE     OLD-FASHIONED,    AND 
GOES    HOME    FOR    THE    HOLIDAYS. 

When  the  Midsummer  vacation  approached,  no  indecent 
manifestations  of  joy  were  exhibited  by  the  leaden-eyed  young 
gentlemen  assembled  at  Doctor  I^limber's.  Any  such  violent 
expression  as  "  breaking  up,"  would  have  been  quite  inappli- 
cable to  that  polite  establishment.  The  young  gentlemen  oozed 
away,  semi-annually,  to  their  own  homes  ;  but  they  never  broke 
up.     They  would  have  scorned  the  action. 

Tozer,  who  was  constantly  galled  and  tormented  by  a 
starched  white  cambric  neck-kerchief,  which  he  wore  at  the 
express  desire  of  Mrs.  Tozer,  his  parent,  who,  designing  him 
for  the  Church,  was  of  opinion  that  he  couldn't  be  in  that  for- 
ward state  of  preparation  too  soon — Tozer  said,  indeed,  that 
choosing  between  two  evils,  he  thought  he  would  rather  stay 
where  he  was,  than  go  home.  However  inconsistent  this  dec- 
laration might  appear  with  that  passage  in  Tozer's  Essay  on 
the  subject,  wherein  he  had  observed  "  that  the  thoughts  of 
home  and  all  its  recollections,  awakened  in  his  mind  the  most 
pleasing  emotions  of  anticipation  and  delight,"  and  had  also 
likened  himself  to  a  Roman  General,  flushed  with  a  recent 
victory  over  the  Iceni,  or  laden  with  Carthaginian  spoil,  advanc- 
ing within  a  few  hours'  march  of  the  Capitol,  pre-supposed,  for 
the  purposes  of  the  simile,  to  be  the  dwelling-place  of  Mrs. 
Tozer,  still  it  was  very  sincerely  made.  For  it  seemed  that 
Tozer  had  a  dreadful  uncle,  who  not  only  volunteered  exami- 
nations of  him,  in  the  holidays,  on  abstruse  points,  but  twisted 
innocent  events  and  things,  and  wrenched  them  to  the  same 
fell  purpose.  So  that  if  this  uncle  took  him  to  the  Play,  or,  on 
a  similar  pretence  of  kindness,  carried  him  to  see  a  Giant,  or  a 
Dwarf,  or  a  Conjuror,  or  anything,  Tozer  knew  he  had  read  up 
some  classical  allusion  to  the  subject  beforehand,  and  ^yas 
thrown  into  a  state  of  mortal  apprehension  :  not  foreseeing 
where  he  might  break  out,  or  what  authority  he  might  not  quotf 
against  him. 


i8o  "  "         ~DOMBEY  AND  SO?}. 

As  to  Briggs,  his  father  made  no  show  of  artifice  about  it 
He  never  would  leave  him  alone.  So  numerous  and  severe 
were  the  mental  trials  of  tiiat  unfortunate  youth  in  vacation 
time,  that  the  friends  of  the  family  (then  resident  near  Bays- 
water,  London)  seldom  approached  the  ornamental  piece  of 
water  in  Kensington  Gardens,  without  a  vague  expectation  of 
seeing  Master  Briggs's  hat  floating  on  the  surface,  and  an  un- 
finished exercise  lying  on  the  bank.  Briggs,  therefore,  was  not 
at  all  sanguine  on  the  subject  of  holidays ;  and  these  two 
sharers  of  little  Paul's  bedroom  were  so  fair  a  sample  of  the 
young  gentlemen  in  general,  that  the  most  elastic  among  them 
contemplated  the  arrival  of  those  festive  periods  with  genteel 
resignation. 

It  was  far  otherwise  with  little  Paul.  The  end  of  these  first 
holidays  was  to  witness  his  separation  from  Florence,  but  who 
ever  looked  forward  to  the  end  of  holidays  whose  beginning 
was  not  yet  come  !  Not  Paul,  assuredly.  As  the  happy  time 
drew  near,  the  lions  and  tigers  climbing  up  the  bedroom  walls, 
became  quite  tame  and  frolicsome.  The  grim  sly  faces  in  the 
squares  and  diamonds  of  the  floor-cloth,  relaxed  and  peeped 
out  at  him  with  less  wicked  eyes.  The  grave  old  clock  had 
more  of  personal  interest  in  the  tone  of  its  formal  inquiry  ;  and 
the  restless  sea  went  rolling  on  all  night,  to  the  sounding  mel- 
ancholy strain — yet  it  was  pleasant  too — that  rose  and  fell  with 
the  waves,  and  rocked  him,  as  it  were,  to  sleep. 

Mr.  Feeder,  B.A.,  seemed  to  think  that  he,  too,  would  enjoy 
the  holidays  very  much.  Mr.  Toots  projected  a  life  of  holidays 
from  that  time  forth  ;  for,  as  he  regularly  informed  Paul  every 
day,  it  was  his  "  last  half  "  at  Dr.  Blimber's,  and  he  was  going 
to  begin  to  come  into  his  property  directly. 

It  was  perfectly  understood  between  Paul  and  Mr.  Toots, 
that  they  were  intimate  friends,  notwithstanding  their  distance 
in  point  of  years  and  station.  As  the  vacation  approached,  and 
Mr.  Toots  breathed  harder  and  stared  oftener  in  Paul's 
society,  than  he  had  done  before,  Paul  knew  that  he  meant  he 
was  sorry  they  were  going  to  lose  sight  of  each  other,  and 
felt  very  much  obliged  to  him  for  his  patronage  and  good 
opinion. 

It  was  even  understood  by  Dr.  Blimber,  Mrs.  Blimber,  and 
Miss  Blimber,  as  well  as  by  the  young  gentlemen  in  general, 
that  Toots  had  somehow  constituted  himself  protector  and 
guardian  of  Dombey,  and  the  circumstances  became  so  no- 
torious, even  to  Mrs.  Pipchin,  that  the  good  old  creature 
cherished  feelings  of  bitterness  and  jealousy  against  Toots: 


PAUL  GkoUs  MOkK  AND  MOkK  OiJ)-PASII10NED.    \%\ 

and,  in  the  sanctuary  of  her  own  home,  repeatedly  denounced 
him  as  a  "  chuckleheaded  noodle."  Whereas  the  innocent 
Toots  had  no  more  idea  of  awakening  Mrs.  Pipchin's  wrath, 
than  he  had  of  any  other  definite  possibility  or  proposition.  On 
the  contrary  he  was  disposed  to  consider  her  rather  a  remark- 
able character  with  many  points  of  interest  about  her.  For 
this  reason  he  smiled  on  her  with  so  much  urbanity,  and  asked 
her  how  she  did,  so  often  in  the  course  of  her  visits  to  little 
Paul,  that  at  last  she  one  night  told  him  plainly,  she  wasn't  used 
to  it,  whatever  he  might  think  ;  and  she  could  not,  and  she 
would  not  bear  it,  either  from  himself  or  any  other  puppy  then 
existing  ;  at  which  unexpected  acknowledgment  of  his  civilities, 
Mr.  Toots  was  so  alarmed  that  he  secreted  himself  in  a  retired 
spot  until  she  had  gone.  Nor  did  he  ever  again  face  the  doughty 
Mrs.  Pipchin,  under  Doctor  Blimber's  roof. 

They  were  within  two  or  three  weeks  of  the  holidays,  when, 
one  day,  Cornelia  Blimber  called  Paul  into  her  room,  and  said, 
"  Dombey,  I  am  going  to  send  home  your  analysis." 

Thank  you,  Ma'am,"  returned  Paul. 

"  You  know  what  I  mean,  do  you,  Dombey  ?  "  inquired  Miss 
Blimber,  looking  hard  at  him  through  the  spectacles. 

"  No,  Ma'am,"  said  Paul. 

"  Dombey,  Dombey,"  said  Miss  Blimber,  "  I  begin  to  be 
afraid  you  are  a  sad  boy.  When  you  don't  know  the  meaning 
of  an  expression,  why  don't  you  seek  for  information  ?  " 

"  Mrs.  Pipchin  told  me  I  wasn't  to  ask  questions,"  returned 
Paul. 

"  I  must  beg  you  not  to  mention  Mrs  Pipchin  to  me,  on  any 
account,  Dombey,"  returned  Miss  Blimber.  "  I  couldn't  think 
of  allowing  it.  The  course  of  study  here,  is  very  far  removed 
from  anything  of  that  sort.  A  repetition  of  such  a.llusions 
would  make  \\.  necessary  for  me  to  request  to  hear,  without  a 
mistake,  before  breakfast-time  to-morrow  morning,  from  Vcrbum 
personale  down  to  shnillima  cygno." 

"  I  didn't  mean.  Ma'am — "  began  little  Paul. 

«  I  must  trouble  you  not  to  tell  me  that  you  didn't  mean,  if 
you  please,  Dombe}^,"  said  Miss  Blimber,  who  preserved  an 
awful  politeness  in  her  admonitions.  "  That  is  a  line  of  argu- 
ment, I  couldn't  dream  of  permitting." 

Paul  felt  it  safest  to  say  nothing  at  all,  so  he  only  looked  at 
Miss  Blimber's  spectacles.  Miss  Blimber  having  shaken  her 
head  at  him  gravely,  referred  to  a  paper  lying  before  her. 

"  'Analysis  of  the  character  of  P.  Dombey.'  If  my  recob 
lection  serves  me,"  said  Miss  Blimber  breaking  off,  "  the  wor4 


1 8 2  DoMiiE  Y  AM)  .^OjV. 

analysis  as  opposed  to  synthesis,  is  thus  defined  by  Walkct 
'The  resolution  of  an  object,  whether  of  the  senses  or  of  tht 
intellect,  into  its  first  elements.'  As  opposed  to  synthesis,  you 
observe.     Now  you  know  what  analysis  is,  Dombey." 

Dombey  didn't  seem  to  be  absolutely  blinded  by  the  light 
let  in  upon  his  intellect,  but  he  made  Miss  Blimber  a  little 
bow. 

"  *  Analysis'  resumed  Miss  Blimber,  casting  her  eye  over  the 
paper,  '  of  the  character  of  P.  Dombey.'  1  find  that  the  natural 
capacity  of  Dombey  is  extremely  good ;  and  that  his  general 
disposition  to  study  may  be  stated  in  an  equal  ratio.  ThuT, 
taking  eight  as  our  standard  and  highest  number,  I  find  these 
qualities  in  Dombey  stated  each  at  six  three-fourths  !  " 

Miss  Blimber  paused  to  see  how  Paul  received  this  news. 
Beiiig  undecided  whether  six  three-fourths,  meant  six  pounds 
fifteen,  or  sixpence  three  farthings,  or  six  foot  three,  or  three 
quarters  past  six,  or  six  somethings  that  he  hadn't  learnt  vet. 
with  three  unknown  something  elses  over,  Paul  rubbed  his  hands 
and  looked  straight  at  Miss  Blimber.  It  happened  to  answer 
as  well  as  anything  else  he  could  have  done  :  and  Cornelia  pro- 
ceeded. 

"  '  Violence  two.  Selfishness  two.  Inclination  to  low  com- 
pany, as  evinced  in  the  case  of  a  person  named  Glubb,  originally 
seven,  but  since  reduced.  Gentlemanly  demeanor  four,  and 
improving  with  advancing  years.'  Now  what  I  particularly  wish 
to  call  your  attention  to,  Dombey,  is  the  general  observation  at 
the  close  of  this  analysis." 

Paul  set  himself  to  follow  it  with  great  care. 

"  '  It  may  be  generally  observed  of  Dombey,' "  said  Miss 
Blimber,  reading  in  a  loud  voice,  and  at  every  second  word 
directing  her  spectacles  towards  the  little  figure  before  her : 
"  'that  his  abilities  and  inclinations  are  good,  and  that  he  has 
made  as  much  progress  as  under  the  circumstances  could  have 
been  expected,  l^.ut  it  is  to  he  lamented  of  this  young  gentle- 
man that  he  is  singular  (what  is  usually  termed  old-fashioned) 
in  his  character  and  conduct,  and  that,  without  presenting  any- 
thing in  either  which  distinctly  calls  for  reprobation,  he  is  often 
very  unlike  other  young  gentlemen  of  his  age  and  social  posi- 
tion.' Now,  Dombey,"  said  Miss  Blimber,  laying  down  the 
paper,  "  do  you  understand  that  ?  " 

"I  think  1  do,  Ma'am,"  said  Paul. 

"This  analysis,  you  see,  Dombey,"  Miss  Blimber  continued, 
"  is  going  to  be  sent  home  to  your  respected  parent.  It  will 
naturally  be  very  painful  to  hina  to  find  that  you  are  singular  in 


rAUL  GROWS  MORE  AND  MORE  OLD-FASHIONED.     185 

your  character  and  conduct.  It  is  naturally  painful  to  us  ;  for 
w«  can't  like  you,  you  know,  Dombey,  as  well  as  we  could 
•\ish." 

She  touched  the  child  upon  a  tender  point.  He  had  secretly 
become  more  and  more  solicitous  from  day  to  day,  as  the  time 
of  his  departure  drew  more  near,  that  all  the  house  should  like 
him.  For  some  hidden  reason,  very  imperfectly  understood  by 
himself — if  understood  at  all — he  felt  a  gradually  increasing 
impulse  of  affection,  towards  almost  everything  and  everybody 
in  the  place.  He  could  not  bear  to  think  that  they  would  be 
quite  indifferent  to  him  when  he  was  gone.  He  wanted  them 
to  remember  him  kindly  ;  and  he  had  made  it  his  business  even 
to  conciliate  a  great  hoarse  shaggy  dog,  chained  up  at  the  back 
of  the  house,  who  had  previously  been  the  terror  of  his  life : 
that  even  he  might  miss  him  when  he  was  no  longer  there. 

Little  thinking  that  in  this,  he  only  showed  again  the  differ- 
ence between  himself  und  his  compeers,  poor  tiny  Paul  set  it 
forth  to  Miss  Blimber  as  well  as  he  could  and  begged  her,  in 
despite  of  the  official  analysis,  to  have  the  goodness  to  try  and 
like  him.  To  Mrs.  Blimber,  who  had  joined  them,  he  preferred 
the  same  petition  :  and  when  that  lady  could  not  forbear,  even 
in  his  presence,  from  giving  utterance  to  her  often-repeated 
opinion,  that  he  was  an  odd  child,  Paul  told  her  that  he  was 
sure  she  was  quite  right ;  that  he  thought  it  must  be  his  bones, 
but  he  didn't  know  ;  and  that  he  hoped  she  would  overlook  it, 
for  he  was  fond  of  them  all. 

"  Not  so  fond,  said  Paul,  with  a  mixture  of  timidity  and 
perfect  frankness,  which  was  one  of  the  most  peculiar  and 
most  engaging  qualities  of  the  child,  "  not  so  fond  as  I  am  of 
Florence,  of  course ;  that  could  never  be.  You  couldn't  ex- 
pect that,  could  you.  Ma'am  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  the  old-fashioned  little  soul  ! "  cried  Mrs.  Blimber, 
m  a  whisper. 

"  But  I  like  everybody  here  very  much,"  pursued  Paul, 
"  and  I  should  grieve  to  go  away,  and  think  that  any  one  was 
glad  that  I  was  gone,  or  didn't  care." 

Mrs.  Blimber  was  not  quite  sure  that  Paul  was  the  oddest 
child  in  the  world  ;  and  when  she  told  the  Doctor  what  had 
passed,  the  Doctor  did  not  controvert  his  wife's  opinion.  But 
he  said,  as  he  had  said  before,  when  Paul  first  came,  that 
study  would  do  much  ;  and  he  also  said,  as  he  had  said  on 
that  occasion,  "  Bring  him  on,  Cornelia  !     Bring  him  on  !  " 

Cornelia  had  always  brought  him  on  as  vigorously  as  she 
GPUld ;  9hc}  P^ul  had  had  a  hard  life  pf  \X,     But  Qver  eind 


184  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

above  the  getting  through  his  tasks,  he  had  long  had  another 
purpose  always  present  to  him,  and  to  which  he  still  held  fast, 
it  was,  to  be  a  gentle,  useful,  quiet  little  fellow,  always  striv- 
ing to  secure  the  love  and  attachment  of  the  rest ;  and  though 
he  was  yet  often  to  be  seen  at  his  old  post  on  the  stairs,  oi" 
watching  the  waves  and  clouds  fiom  his  solitar}'  window,  he 
was  oftener  found,  too,  among  the  other  boys,  modestly  ren 
dering  them  some  little  voluntary  service.  Thus  it  came  to 
pass,  that  even  among  those  rigid  and  absorbed  young  anchor- 
ites, w^ho  mortified  themselves  beneath  the  roof  of  Doctor 
Blimber,  Paul  was  an  object  of  general  interest ;  a  fragile  little 
plaything  that  they  all  liked,  and  that  no  one  would  have  thought 
of  treating  roughly.  But  he  could  not  change  his  nature,  or 
re-write  the  analysis ;  and  so  they  all  agreed  that  Dombey  was 
old-fashioned. 

There  were  some  immunities,  however,  attaching  to  the 
character  enjoyed  by  no  one  else.  They  could  have  better 
spared  a  newer-fashioned  child,  and  that  alone  was  much. 
When  the  others  only  bowed  to  Doctor  Blimber  and  family  on 
retiring  for  the  night,  Paul  would  stretch  out  his  morsel  of  a 
hand,  and  boldly  shake  the  Doctor's  ;  also  Mrs.  Blimber's  ;  also 
Cornelia's.  If  anybody  was  to  be  begged  off  from  impending 
punishment,  Paul  was  always  the  delegate.  The  weak-eyed 
young  man  himself  had  once  consulted  him,  in  reference  to  a 
little  breakage  of  glass  and  china.  And  it  was  darkly  rumored 
that  the  butler,  regarding  him  with  favor  such  as  that  stern  man 
had  never  shown  before  to  mortal  boy,  had  sometimes  mingled 
porter  with  his  table-beer  to  make  him  strong. 

Over  and  above  these  extensive  privileges,  Paul  had  free 
right  of  entry  of  Mr.  Feeder's  room,  from  which  apartment  he 
had  twice  led  Mr.  Toots  into  the  open  air  in  a  state  of  faint- 
ness,  consequent  on  an  unsuccessful  attempt  to  smoke  a  \  ery 
blunt  cigar :  one  of  a  bundle  which  that  young  gentleman  had 
covertly  purchased  on  the  shingle  from  a  most  desperate  smug- 
gler, who  had  acknowledged,  in  confidence,  that  two  hundred 
pounds  was  the  price  set  upon  his  head,  dead  or  alive,  by  the 
Custom  House.  It  was  a  snug  room,  Mr.  Feeder's  with  hig 
bed  in  another  little  room  inside  of  it ,  and  a  flute,  which  Mr. 
Feeder  couldn't  play  yet,  but  was  going  to  make  a  point  of 
learning,  he  said,  hanging  up  o\'er  the  fire-place.  There  were 
some  books  in  it,  too,  and  a  fishing-rod  ;  for  Mr.  Feeder  said 
he  should  certainly  make  a  point  of  learning  to  fish,  when  he 
could  find  time.  Mr.  Feeder  had  amassed,  with  similar  interK 
tions,  a  beautiful  h"ltJe  curly  segond-hand  key-bugle,  a  gbess* 


PAUL  GROWS  MORE  AA^D  MORE  OLD-FASHIONED.     185 

board  and  men,  a  Spanish  Grammer,  a  set  of  sketching  materials 
and  a  pair  of  boxing-gloves.  The  art  of  self-defence  Mr. 
Feeder  said  he  should  undoubtedly  make  a  point  of  learning, 
as  he  considered  it  the  duty  of  every  man  to  do  ;  for  it  might 
lead  to  the  protection  of  a  female  in  distress. 

But  Mr.  Feeder's  great  possession  was  a  large  green  jar  of 
snuff,  which  Mr.  Toots  had  brought  down  as  a  present,  at  the 
close  of  the  last  vacation  ;  and  for  which  he  had  paid  a  high 
price,  as  having  been  the  genuine  property  of  the  Prince  Regent. 
Neither  Mr.  Toots  nor  Mr.  Feeder  could  partake  of  this  or  any 
other  snuff,  even  in  the  most  stinted  and  moderate  degree,  with- 
out being  seized  with  convulsions  of  sneezing.  Nevertheless  it 
was  their  great  delight  to  moisten  a  box-full  with  cold  tea,  stir 
it  up  on  a  piece  of  parchment  with  a  paper-knife,  and  devote 
themselves  to  its  consumption  then  and  there.  In  the  course 
of  which  cramming  of  their  noses,  they  endured  surprising  tor- 
ments with  the  constancy  of  martyrs  :  and,  drinking  table-beer 
at  intervals,  felt  all  t'^e  glories  of  dissipation. 

To  little  Paul  sitting  silent  in  their  company,  and  by  the 
side  of  his  chief  patron,  Mr.  Toots,  there  was  a  dread  charm  in 
these  reckless  occasions :  and  when  Mr.  Feeder  spoke  of  the 
dark  mysteries  of  London,  and  told  Mr.  Toots  that  he  was 
going  to  observe  it  himself  closely  in  all  its  ramifications  in  the 
approaching  holidays,  and  for  that  purpose  had  made  arrange- 
ments to  board  with  two  old  maideli  ladies  at  Peckham,  Paul 
regarded  him  as  if  he  were  the  hero  of  some  book  of  travels 
or  wild  adventure,  and  was  almost  afraid  of  such  a  slashing 
person. 

Going  into  this  room  one  evening,  when  the  holidays  were 
very  near,  Paul  found  Mr.  Feeder  filling  up  the  blanks  in  some 
printed  letters,  while  some  others,  already  filled  up  and  strewn 
before  him,  were  being  folded  and  sealed  by  Mr.  Toots.  Mr. 
Feeder  said,  "  Aha,  Uombey,  there  you  are,  are  you  ?  " — for 
they  were  always  kind  to  him,  and  glad  to  see  him — and  then 
said  tossing  one  of  the  letters  towards  him,  "  And  there  you  are, 
too,  Dombey.     That's  yours." 

"  Mine,  Sir  ?  "  said  Paul. 

"Your  invitation,"  returned  Mr.  Feeder. 

Paul,  looking  at  it,  found,  in  copper-plate  print,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  his  own  name  and  the  date,  which  v»'ere  in  Mr.  Feeder's 
Penmanship,  that  Doctor  and  Mrs.  Blimber  requested  the 
pleasure  of  Mr.  P.  Dombev's  company  at  an  early  party  on 
Wednesday  Evening  the  Seventeenth  Instant ;  and  that  the  houT 
was  half-past  seven  o'clock  ;  and  that  the  object  was  Quadrilles 


l86  DOMDEV  AK-D  SON. 

Mr.  Tools  also  showed  him,  by  holding  up  a  coinpanion  sheet 
of  paper,  that  Doctor  and  Mrs.  Blimber  requested  the  pleasure 
of  Mr.  Toots's  company  at  an  early  parly  on  Wednesday  Even- 
ing tlie  Seventeenth  Instant,  when  the  hour  was  half-past  seven 
o'clock,  and  when  the  object  was  Quadrilles.  He  also  found, 
on  glancing  at  the  table  where  Mr.  Feedersat,  that  the  pleasure 
of  Mr.  Brigg's  company,  and  of  Mr.  Tozer's  company,  and  of 
every  young  gentleman's  company,  was  requested  by  Doctor 
and  Mrs.  Blimber  on  the  same  genteel  occasion. 

Mr.  Feeder  then  told  him,  to  his  great  joy,  that  his  sister 
was  invited,  and  that  it  was  a  half-yearly  event,  and  that,  as 
the  holidays  began  that  day,  he  could  go  away  with  his  sister 
after  the  party,  if  he  liked,  which  Paul  interrupted  him  to  say 
he  7vould  like,  very  much.  Mr.  Feeder  then  gave  him  to  un- 
derstand that  he  would  be  expected  to  inform  Doctor  and 
Mrs.  Blimber  in  superfine  small-hand,  that  Mr.  P.  Dombey 
would  be  happy  to  have  the  honor  of  wailing  on  them,  in  ac- 
cordance with  their  polite  invitation.  Lastly,  Mr.  Feeder 
said  he  had  better  not  refer  to  the  festive  occasion,  in  the 
hearing  of  Doctor  and  Mrs.  Blimber  ;  as  these  preliminaries, 
and  the  whole  of  the  arrangements,  were  conducted  on  princi- 
ples of  classicality  and  high  breeding  ;  and  that  Doctor  and 
Mrs.  Blimber  on  the  one  hand,  and  the  young  gentlemen  on  the 
other,  were  supposed,  in  their  scholastic  capacities  not  to  have 
the  least  idea  of  what  was  in  the  wind. 

Paul  thanked  Mr.  Feeder  for  these  hints,  and  pocketing  his 
invitation,  sat  down  on  a  stool  by  the  side  of  Mr.  Toots  as 
usual.  J>ut  Paul's  head,  which  had  long  been  ailing  more  or 
less,  and  was  sometimes  very  hea\y  and  painful,  felt  so  uneasy 
that  night,  that  he  was  obliged  to  support  it  on  his  hand.  And 
yet  it  dropped  so,  that  by  little  and  little  it  sunk  on  Mr.  Toot's 
knee,  and  rested  there,  as  if  it  had  no  care  to  be  ever  lifted  up 
again. 

That  was  no  reason  why  he  should  be  deaf ;  but  he  must 
have  been,  he  thought,  for  by  and  by,  he  heard  Mr.  Feeder  call- 
ing in  his  ear,  and  gently  shaking  him  to  rouse  his  attention. 
And  when  he  raised  his  head,  quite  scared,  and  looked  about 
him,  and  found  tliat  Doctor  Blimber  had  come  into  the  room  ; 
and  that  the  window  was  open,  and  that  his  forehead  was  wet 
with  sprinkled  water  ;  though  how  all  this  had  been  done  with- 
out his  knowledge,  was  vcr)-  curious  indeed. 

"  Ah  !  Come,  come  !  That's  well  !  How  is  my  little  friend 
now?"  said  Doctor  Blimber,  encouragingly. 

"  Oh,  quite  well,  thank  you,  Sir,"  said  Paul. 


I'AUL  grows  MORk  AND  MORk  OLD-FASHIOKED.     187 

But  there  seemed  to  be  something  the  matter  with  the  floor, 
for  he  couldn't  stand  upon  it  steadily :  and  with  the  walls  too, 
tor  they  were  inclined  to  turn  round  and  round,  and  could  only 
be  stopped  by  being  looked  at  very  hard  indeed.  Mr.  Toot's 
head  had  the  appearance  of  being  at  once  bigger  and  farther  off 
than  was  quite  natural :  and  when  he  took  Paul  in  his  arms,  to 
carry  him  up  stairs,  Paul  observed  with  astonishment  that  the 
door  was  in  quite  a  different  place  from  that  in  which  he  had 
expected  to  find  it,  and  almost  thought,  at  first,  that  Mr.  Toots 
was  going  to  walk  straight  up  the  chimney. 

It  was  very  kind  of  Mr.  Toots  to  carry  him  to  the  top  of  the 
house  so  tenderly  ;  and  Paul  told  him  that  it  was.  But  Mr. 
Toots  said  he  would  do  a  great  deal  more  than  that,  if  he  could  ; 
and  indeed  he  did  more  as  it  was :  for  he  helped  Paul  to  un- 
dress, and  helped  him  to  bed,  in  the  kindest  manner  possible, 
and  then  sat  down  by  the  bedside  and  chuckled  very  much  ; 
A'hile  Mr.  Feeder,  B.A.,  leaning  over  the  bottom  of  the  bed- 
sterd,  set  all  the  little  bristles  on  his  head  bolt  upright  with  his 
bony  hands,  and  then  made  believe  to  spar  at  Paul  with  great 
science,  on  account  of  his  being  all  right  again,  which  was  so 
uncommonly  facetious,  and  kind  too  in  Mr.  Feeder,  that  Paul, 
not  being  able  to  make  up  his  mind  whether  it  was  best  to  laugh 
or  cry  at  him,  did  both  at  once. 

How  Mr.  Toots  melted  away,  and  Mr.  Feeder  changed  into 
Mrs.  Pipchin,  Paul  never  thought  of  asking ;  neither  was  he  at 
all  curious  to  know  ;  but  when  he  saw  Mrs.  Pipchin  standing  at 
the  bottom  of  the  bed,  instead  of  Mr.  Feeder,  he  cried  out, 
"  Mrs.  Pipchin,  don't  tell  Florence  !  " 

"  Don't  tell  Florence  what,  my  little  Paul  ? "  said  Mrs.  Pip- 
chin, coming  round  to  the  bedside,  and  sitting  down  in  the 
chair. 

"  About  me,"  said  Paul, 

"  No,  no,"  said  Mrs.  Pipchin. 

"  What  do  you  think  I  mean  to  do  when  I  grow  up,  Mrs. 
Pipchin  ?  "  inquired  Paul,  turning  his  face  towards  her  on  his 
pillow,  and  resting  his  chin  wistfully  on  his  folded  hands. 

Mrs.  Pipchin  couldn't  guess. 

"  I  mean,"  said  Paul,  "  to  put  my  money  all  together  in  one 
Bank,  never  try  to  get  any  more,  go  away  into  the  country  with 
my  darling  Florence,  have  a  beautiful  garden,  fields,  and  woods 
and  live  there  with  her  all  my  life  !  " 

"  Indeed  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Pipchin. 

"Yes,"  said  Paul.  "That's  what  I  mean  to  do,  when  I — " 
He  stopped,  and  pondered  for  a  moment. 


i8g  DOM  BE  V  AND  SO^T. 

Mrs.  Pipchin's  gray  eye  scanned  his  thoughtful  face. 

"  If  I  grow  up,"  said  Paul.  Then  he  went  on  immediately 
to  tell  Mrs.  Pipchin  all  about  the  party,  about  Florence's  invi- 
tation, about  the  pride  he  would  have  in  the  admiration  that 
would  be  felt  for  her  by  all  the  boys,  about  their  being  so  kind 
to  him  and  fond  of  him,  about  his  being  so  fond  of  them,  and 
about  his  being  so  glad  of  it.  Then  he  told  Mrs.  Pipchin  about 
the  analysis,  and  about  his  being  certainly  old-fashioned,  and 
took  Mrs.  Pipchin's  opinion  on  that  point,  and  whether  she 
knew  why  it  was,  and  what  it  meant.  Mrs.  Pipchin  denied  the 
fact  altogether,  as  the  shortest  way  of  getting  out  of  the  diffi- 
culty ;  but  Paul  was  far  from  satisfied  with  that  reply,  and 
looked  so  searchingly  at  Mrs.  Pipchin  for  a  truer  answer,  that 
she  was  obliged  to  get  up  and  look  out  of  the  window  to  avoid 
his  eyes. 

There  was  a  certain  calm  Apothecary,  who  attended  at  the 
establishment  when  any  of  the  young  gentlemen  were  ill,  and 
somehow  he  got  into  the  room  and  appeared  at  the  bedside,  with 
Mrs.  Blimber.  How  they  came  there,  or  how  long  they  had 
been  there,  Paul  didn't  know ;  but  when  he  saw  them,  he  sat  up 
in  bed,  and  answered  all  the  Apothecary's  questions  at  full  length, 
and  whispered  to  him  that  Florence  was  not  to  know  anything 
about  it,  if  he  pleased,  and  that  he  had  set  his  mind  upon  her 
coming  to  the  party.  He  was  very  chatty  with  the  Apothecary 
and  they  parted  excellent  friends.  Lying  down  again  with  his 
eyes  shut,  he  heard  the  Apothecary  say,  out  of  the  room  and 
quite  a  long  way  off — or  he  dreamed  it — that  there  was  a  want 
of  vital  power  (what  was  that,  Paul  wondered !)  and  great  con- 
stitutional weakness.  That  as  the  little  fellow  had  set  his  heart 
on  parting  with  his  schoolmates  on  the  seventeenth,  it  would 
be  better  to  indulge  the  fancy  if  he  grew  no  worse.  That  he 
was  glad  to  hear  from  Mrs.  Pipchin,  that  the  little  fellow  would 
go  to  his  friends  in  London  on  the  eighteenth.  That  he  would 
write  to  Mr.  Dombey,  when  he  should  have  gained  a  better 
knowledge  of  the  case,  and  before  that  day.  That  there  was  no 
immediate  cause  for — what?  Paul  lost  that  word.  And  that 
the  little  fellow  had  a  fine  mind,  but  was  an  old-fashioned  boy. 

What  old  fashion  could  that  be,  Paul  wondered  with  a  pal- 
pitating heart,  that  was  so  visibly  expressed  in  him ;  so  plainly 
seen  by  so  many  people  ! 

He  could  neither  make  it  out,  nor  trouble  himself  long  with 
the  effort.  Mrs.  Pipchin  was  again  beside  him,  if  she  had  ever 
been  away  (he  thought  she  had  gone  out  with  the  Doctor,  but  it 
was  all  a  dream  perhaps),  and  presently  a  bottle  and  glass  got 


PAUL  GROWS  MORE  AND  MORE  OLD-FASHIONED.     189 

into  her  hands  magically,  and  she  poured  out  the  contents  for 
him.  After  that,  he  had  some  real  good  jelly,  which  Mrs.  Blim- 
ber  brought  to  him  herself  ;  and  tlien  he  was  so  well,  that  Mrs. 
Pipchin  went  home,  at  his  urgent  solicitation,  and  Briggs  and 
Tozer  came  to  bed.  Poor  Briggs  grumbled  terribly  about  his 
own  analysis,  which  could  hardly  have  discomposed  him  more 
if  it  had  been  a  chemical  process,  but  he  was  very  good  to 
Paul,  and  so  was  Tozer,  and  so  were  all  the  rest,  for  they  every 
one  looked  in  before  going  to  bed,  and  said,  "  How  are  you 
now,  Dombey  ?  "  "  Cheer  up,  little  Dombey !  "  and  so  forth. 
After  Briggs  had  gone  into  bed,  he  lay  awake  for  a  long  time, 
still  bemoaning  his  analysis,  and  saying  he  knew  it  was  all 
wrong,  and  they  couldn't  have  analyzed  a  murderer  worse,  and 
how  would  Doctor  Blimber  like  it  if  his  pocket-money  depended 
on  it  ?  It  was  very  easy,  Briggs  said,  to  make  a  galley-slave  of 
a  boy  all  the  half-year,  and  then  score  him  up  idle  ;  and  to  crib 
two  dinners  a-week  out  of  his  board,  and  then  score  him  up 
greedy  ;  but  that  wasn't  going  to  be  submitted  to,  he  believed, 
was  it  ?     Oh  !     Ah  ! 

Before  the  weak-eyed  young  man  performed  on  the  gong 
next  morning,  he  came  up  stairs  to  Paul  and  told  him  he  was 
to  lie  still,  which  Paul  very  gladly  did.  Mrs.  Pipchin  re-appeared 
a  little  before  the  Apothecary,  and  a  little  after  the  good  young 
woman  whom  Paul  had  seen  cleaning  the  stove  on  that  first 
morning  (how  long  ago  it  seemed  now  !)  had  brought  him  his 
breakfast.  There  was  another  consultation,  a  long  way  off,  or 
else  Paul  dreamed  it  again  ;  and  then  the  Apothecary,  coming 
back  with  Doctor  and  Mrs.  Blimber    said  : 

"  Yes,  I  think.  Dr.  Blimber,  we  may  release  this  young 
gentleman  from  his  books  just  now;  the  vacation  being  so  very 
near  at  hand." 

"  By  all  means,"  said  Dr.  Blimber.  "  My  love,  you  will 
inform  Cornelia,  if  you  please." 

"  Assuredly,"  said  Mrs.  Blimber. 

The  Apothecary  bending  down,  looked  closely  into  Paul's 
eyes,  and  felt  his  head,  and  his  pulse,  and  his  heart,  with  so 
much  intap-est  and  care,  that  Paul  said  "  Thank  you,  Sir." 

"  Our  little  friend,"  observed  Dr.  Blimber,  "  has  never  com- 
plained." 

"  Oh  no  ! "  replied  the  Apothecary.  "  He  was  not  likely  to 
complain." 

"  You  find  him  greatly  better  ?  "  said  Dr.   Blimber. 

"  Oh  !  he  is  greatly  better,  Sir,"  returned  the  Apothecary. 

Paul  had  begun  to  speculate,  in  his  own  odd  way,  on  the 


I5JO  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

subject  that  might  occupy  the  Apothecary's  mind  just  at  that 
moment ;  so  musingly  had  he  answered  the  two  questions  of 
Dr.  BUmber.  But  the  Apothecary  happening  to  meet  his  little 
patient's  eyes,  as  the  latter  set  off  on  tiiat  mental  expedition, 
and  coming  instantly  out  of  his  abstraction  with  a  cheerful 
smile,  Paul  smiled  in  return  and  abandoned  it. 

He  lay  in  bed  all  that  day,  dozing  and  dreaming,  and  look- 
hig  at  Mr.  Toots  :  but  got  up  on  the  next,  and  went  down 
stairs.  Lo  and  behold,  there  was  something  the  matter  with 
the  great  clock  ;  and  a  workman  on  a  pair  of  steps  had  taken 
its  face  off,  and  was  poking  instruments  into  the  works  by  the 
light  of  a  candle  !  This  was  a  great  event  for  Paul,  who  sat 
down  on  the  bottom  stair,  and  watched  the  operation  atten- 
tively: now  and  then  glancing  at  the  clock  face,  leaning  all 
askew,  against  the  wall  hard  by,  and  feeling  a  little  confused 
by  a  suspicion  that  it  was  ogling  him. 

The  workman  on  the  steps  was  very  civil ;  and  as  he  said, 
when  he  observed  Paul,  "  Plow  do  you  do,  Sir  ? "  Paul  got  into 
conversation  with  him,  and  told  him  he  hadn't  been  quite  well 
lately.  The  ice  being  thus  broken,  Paul  asked  him  a  multi- 
tude of  questions  about  chimes  and  clocks  :  as,  whether  people 
watched  up  in  the  lonely  church  steeples  by  night  to  make  them 
strike,  and  how  the  bells  were  rung  when  people  died,  and 
whether  those  were  different  bells  from  wedding  bells,  or  only 
sounded  dismal  in  the  fancies  of  the  living.  Finding  that  his 
new  acquaintance  was  not  very  well  informed  on  the  subject  of 
the  Curfew  Bell  of  ancient  days,  Paul  gave  him  an  account  of 
that  institution  ;  and  also  asked  him,  as  a  practical  man,  what 
he  thought  about  King  Alfred's  idea  of  measuring  time  by  the 
burning  of  candles;  to  which  the  workman  replied,  that  he 
thought  it  would  be  the  ruin  of  the  clock  trade  if  it  was  to  come 
up  again.  In  fine,  Paul  looked  on,  until  the  clock  had  quite 
recovered  its  familiar  aspect,  and  resumed  its  sedate  inquiry: 
when  the  workman,  putting  away  his  tools  in  a  long  basket, 
bade  him  good-day,  and  went  away.  Though  not  before  he 
had  whispered  something,  on  the  door-mat,  to  the  footman,  in 
which  there  was  the  phrase  "  old-fashioned  " — for  Paul  heard  it. 

What  could  that  old  fashion  be,  that  seemed  to  make  the 
people  sorry  !     What  could  it  be  ! 

Having  nothing  to  learn  now,  he  thought  of  this  frequently; 
though  not  so  often  as  he  might  ha\c  done,  if  he  had  had 
fewer  things  to  think  of.  But  he  had  a  great  many  ;  and  was 
always  thinking,  all  day  long. 

Fir.st,  th^re  was  Flpreiice  coming  to  the  party.    rior<"nge 


PAUL  GROWS  MORE  AND  MORE  OLD-FASHIONED,     igj 

irould  see  that  the  boys  were  fond  of  him  :  and  that  would 
make  her  happy.  This  was  his  great  theme.  Let  Florence 
once  be  sure  that  they  were  gentle  and  good  to  him,  and  that 
he  liad  become  a  little  favorite  among  them,  and  then  she 
would  always  think  of  the  time  he  had  passed  there,  witl  out 
being  very  sorry.  Florence  might  be  all  the  happier  too  for 
that,  perhaps,  when  he  came  back. 

When  he  came  back.  Fifty  times  a  day,  his  noiseless  little 
feet  went  up  the  stairs  to  his  own  room,  as  he  collected  every 
book  and  scrap,  and  trifle  that  belonged  to  him,  and  put  them 
all  together  there,  down  to  the  minutest  thing,  for  taking  home! 
There  was  no  shade  of  coming  back  on  little  Paul ;  no  prepara- 
tion for  it,  or  other  reference  to  it,  grew  out  of  any  thing  he 
thought  or  did,  except  this  slight  one  in  connection  with  his 
sister.  On  the  contrary,  he  had  to  think  of  everything  familiar 
to  him,  in  his  contemplative  moods  and  in  his  wanderings 
about  the  house,  as  being  to  be  parted  with ;  and  hence  the 
many  things  he  had  to  think  of,  all  day  long. 

He  had  to  peep  into  those  rooms  up  stairs,  and  think  how 
solitary  they  would  be  when  he  was  gone,  and  wonder  through 
how  many  silent  days,  weeks,  months,  and  years,  they  would 
continue  just  as  grave  and  undisturbed.  He  had  to  think — 
would  any  other  child  (old-fashioned,  like  himself)  stray  there 
at  any  time,  to  whom  the  same  grotesque  distortions  of  pattern 
and  furniture  would  manifest  themselves  ;  and  would  anybody 
tell  that  boy  of  little  Dombey.  who  had  been  there  once. 

He  had  to  think  of  a  portrait  on  the  stairs,  which  always 
looked  earnestly  after  him  as  he  went  away,  eyeing  it  over  his 
shoulder:  and  which,  when  he  passed  it  in  the  company  of  any 
one,  still  seemed  to  gaze  at  him,  and  not  at  his  companion, 
He  had  much  to  think  of,  in  association  with  a  print  that  hung 
up  in  another  place,  where,  in  the  centre  of  a  wondering  group, 
one  figure  that  he  knew,  a  figure  with  a  light  about  its  head — 
.benignant,  mild,  and  merciful — stood  pointing  upward. 

At  his  own  bedroom  window,  there  were  crowds  of  thoughts 
that  mixed  with  these,  and  came  on,  one  upon  another,  like  the 
rolling  waves.  Where  those  wild  birds  lived,  that  were  always 
hovering  out  at  sea  in  troubled  weather  ;  where  the  clouds 
rose  and  first  began  ;  whence  the  wind  issued  on  its  rushing 
flight,  and  where  it  stopped ;  whether  the  spot  where  he  and 
Florence  had  so  often  sat,  and  watched,  and  talked  about  these 
things,  could  ever  be  exactly  as  it  used  to  be  without  them  ; 
whether  it  could  even  be  the  same  to  Florence,  if  he  were  tR 
8ome  distant  place,  and  she  were  sitting  there  alone. 


192  DOME EY  AND  S0,\\ 

He  had  to  think,  too,  of  Mr.  Toots,  and  Mr.  Feeder,  B.  A., 
of  all  tlie  boys  ;  and  of  Dr.  Blimbcr,  and  Mrs.  Blimber,  and 
Miss  ]3limber;  of  home,  and  of  his  aunt,  and  Miss  Tox ;  of  his 
father,  Dombey  and  Son,  Walter  with  the  poor  old  uncle  who 
had  got  the  money  he  wanted,  and  that  gruff-voiced  Captain 
w  ith  the  iron  hand.  Besides  all  this,  he  had  a  number  of  little 
visits  to  pay,  in  the  course  of  the  day  :  to  the  school-room,  to 
Dr.  Blimber's  study,  to  Mrs.  Blimber's  private  apartment,  to 
]\Iiss  Blimber's  and  to  the  dog.  For  he  was  free  of  the  whole 
house  now,  to  range  it  as  he  chose  ;  and,  in  his  desire  to  part 
with  everybody  on  affectionate  terms,  he  attended,  in  his  way, 
to  them  all.  Sometimes  he  found  places  in  books  for  Briggs, 
who  was  always  losing  them ;  sometimes  he  looked  up  words 
in  dictionaries  for  other  young  gentlemen  who  were  in  extrem- 
ity  ;  sometimes  he  held  skeins  of  silk  for  Mrs.  Blimber  to 
-wind;  sometimes  he  put  Cornelia's  desk  to  rights;  sometimes 
he  Avould  even  creep  into  the  Doctor's  study,  and,  sitting  on 
the  carpet  near  his  learned  feet,  turn  the  globes  softly,  and  go 
round  the  world,  or  take  a  flight  among  the  far-off  stars. 

In  those  days  immediately  before  the  holidays,  in  short, 
when  the  other  young  gentlemen  were  laboring  for  dear  life 
through  a  general  resumption  of  the  studies  of  the  whole  half 
year,  Paul  was  such  a  privileged  pupil  as  had  never  been  seen  in 
that  house  before.  He  could  hardly  believe  it  himself ;  but 
his  liberty  lasted  from  hour  to  hour,  and  from  day  to  day;  and 
little  Dombey  was  caressed  by  every  one.  Doctor  Blimber 
was  so  particular  about  him,  that  he  requested  Johnson  to 
retire  from  the  dinner-table  one  day,  for  having  thoughtlessly 
spoken  to  him  as  "poor  little  Dombey;"  which  Paul  thought 
rather  hard  and  severe,  though  he  had  flushed  at  the  moment, 
and  wondered  why  Johnson  should  pity  him.  It  was  the  more 
questionable  justice,  Paul  thought,  in  the  Doctor,  from  his  hav- 
ing certainly  overheard  that  great  authority  give  his  assent  on 
the  previous  evening,  to  the  proposition  (stated  by  Mrs.  Blim- 
ber) that  poor  dear  little  Dombey  was  more  old-fashioned  than 
ever.  And  now  it  was  that  Paul  began  to  think  it  must  surely 
be  old-fashioned  to  be  very  thin,  and  light,  and  easily  tired, 
and  soon  disposed  to  lie  down  anywhere  and  rest ;  for  he 
couldn't  help  feeling  that  these  were  more  and  more  his  habits 
every  day. 

At  last  the  party-day  arrived  ;  and  Doctor  Blimber  said  at 
breakfast,  "(icntlcnicn,  wc  will  resume  our  studies  on  the 
twenty-l'iflh  of  next  nionlh."  Mr.  Toots  immediately  threw  off 
liis  allej^iance,  and  jnit  on  his    ' 


PAUL  CkOWS  MOk&  AND  MORE  OLD-FASHIONED,    kjj 

In  casual  conversation  shortly  afterwards,  spoke  of  him  as 
"  Blimber !  "  This  act  of  freedom  inspired  the  older  pupils 
with  admiration  and  envy ;  but  the  younger  spirits  were  ap- 
palled, and  seemed  to  marvel  that  no  beam  fell  down  and 
crushed  him. 

Not  the  least  allusion  was  made  to  the  ceremonies  of  the 
evening,  either  at  breakfast  or  at  dinner  ;  but  there  was  a  bus- 
tle in  the  house  all  day,  and  in  the  course  of  his  perambula- 
tions, Paul  made  acquaintance  with  various  strange  benches 
and  candlesticks,  and  met  a  harp  in  a  green  great-coat  stand- 
ing on  the  landing  outside  the  drawing-room  door.  There  was 
something  queer,  too,  about  Mrs.  Blimber's  head  at  dinner- 
time, as  if  she  had  screwed  her  hair  up  too  tight ;  and  though 
Miss  Blimber  showed  a  graceful  bunch  of  plaited  hair  on  each 
temple,  she  seemed  to  have  her  own  little  curls  in  paper 
underneath,  and  in  a  play-bill  too  :  for  Paul  read  "  Theatre 
Royal  "  over  one  of  her  sparkling  spectacles,  and  "  Brighton  " 
over  the  other. 

There  was  a  grand  array  of  white  waistcoats  and  cravats  in 
the  young  gentlemen's  bedrooms  as  evening  approached  ;  and 
such  a  smell  of  singed  hair,  that  Doctor  Blimber  sent  up  the 
footman  with  his  compliments,  and  wished  to  know  if  the  house 
was  on  fire.  But  it  was  only  the  hair-dresser  curling  the  young 
gentlemen,  and  over-heating  his  tongs  in  the  ardor  of  business. 

When  Paul  was  dressed — which  was  very  soon  done,  for  he 
felt  unwell  and  drowsy,  and  was  not  able  to  stand  about  it  very 
long — he  went  down  into  the  drawing-room ;  where  he  found 
Doctor  Blimber  pacing  up  and  down  the  room  full  dressed, 
but  with  a  dignified  and  unconcerned  demeanor,  as  if  he 
thought  it  barely  possible  that  one  or  two  people  might  drop  in 
by  and  by.  Shortly  afterwards,  Mrs.  Blimber  appeared  look- 
ing lovely,  Paul  thought ;  and  attired  in  such  a  number  of 
skirts  that  it  was  quite  an  excursion  to  walk  round  her.  Miss 
Blimber  came  down  soon  after  her  mama  ;  a  little  squeezed  in 
appearance,  but  very  charming. 

Mr.  Toots  and  Mr.  Feeder  were  the  next  arrivals.  Each 
of  these  gentlemen  brought  his  hat  in  his  hand,  as  if  he  lived 
somewhere  else ;  and  when  they  were  announced  by  the  butler. 
Doctor  Blimber  said,  "  Ay,  ay,  ay !  God  bless  my  soul !  " 
and  seemed  extremely  glad  to  see  them.  Mr.  Toots  was  one 
blaze  of  jewellery  and  buttons  :  and  he  felt  the  circumstance 
so  strongly,  that  when  he  had  shaken  hands  with  the  Doctor, 
aad  had  bowed  to  Mrs.  Blimber  and  Miss  Blimber,  he  took 
Paul  aside,  and  said  "  What  do  you  think  of  this,  Dombey ! " 


1^  DOAfBEY  AJ^i)  sOiV. 

But  notwithstanding  this  modest  confidence  in  himself,  Ml 
Toots  appeared  to  be  involved  in  a  good  deal  of  uncertainty 
whether,  on  the  whole,  it  was  judicious  to  button  the  bottom 
button  of  his  waistcoat,  and  whether,  on  a  calm  revision  of  all 
the  circumstances,  it  was  best  to  wear  his  wristbands  turned  up 
or  turned  down.  Observing  that  Mr.  Feeder's  were  turned 
up,  Mr.  Toots  turned  his  up  ;  but  the  wristbands  of  the  next 
arrival  being  turned  down,  Mr.  Toots  turned  his  down.  The 
differences  in  point  of  waistcoat  buttoning,  not  only  at  the  bot- 
tom, but  at  the  top  too,  became  so  numerous  and  complicated 
as  the  arrivals  thickened,  that  Mr.  Toots  was  continually 
fingering  that  article  of  dress,  as  if  he  were  performing  on  some 
instrument ;  and  appeared  to  find  the  incessant  execution  it 
demanded,  quite  bewildering. 

All  the  young  gentlemen,  tightly  cravatted,  curled,  and 
pumped,  and  with  their  best  hats  in  their  hands,  having  been 
at  different  times  announced  and  introduced,  Mr.  JBaps,  the 
dancing-master,  came,  accompanied  by  Mrs.  Baps,  to  whom 
Mrs.  Elimber  was  extremely  kind  and  condescending.  Mr. 
Baps  was  a  very  grave  gentleman,  with  a  slow  and  measured 
manner  of  speaking ;  and  before  he  had  stood  under  the  lamp 
five  minutes,  he  began  to  talk  to  Toots  (who  had  been  silently 
comparing  pumps  with  him)  about  what  you  were  to  do  with 
your  raw  materials  when  they  came  into  your  ports  in  return 
for  your  drain  of  gold.  Mr.  Toots,  to  whom  the  question 
seemed  perplexing,  suggested  "  Cook  'em."  But  Mr,  Bai?s  did 
not  appear  to  think  that  would  do. 

Paul  now  slipped  away  from  the  cushioned  corner  of  a  sofa, 
which  had  been  his  post  of  observation,  and  went  down  stairs 
into  the  tea-room  to  be  ready  for  Florence,  whom  he  had  not 
seen  for  nearly  a  fortnight,  as  he  had  remained  at  Doctor 
Blimber's  on  the  previous  Saturday  and  Sunday,  lest  he  should 
take  cold.  Presently  she  came  :  looking  so  beautiful  in  her 
simple  ball  dress,  with  her  fresh  flowers  in  her  hand,  that  when 
she  knelt  down  on  the  ground  to  take  Paul  round  the  neck  and 
kiss  him  (for  there  was  no  one  there,  but  his  friend  and  another 
young  woman  waiting  to  serve  out  the  tea),  he  could  hardly 
make  up  his  mind  to  let  her  go  again,  or  to  take  away  her 
bright  and  loving  eyes  from  his  face 

"  But  what  is  the  matter,  Floy  ?  "  asked  Paul,  almost  sure 
that  he  saw  a  tear  there. 

"  Nothing,  darling  ;  nothing,"  returned  Florence. 

Paul  touched  her  cheek  gently  with  liis  finger — and  it  wcu 
a  tear  I     "  Why,  Floy  !  "  said  he. 


I 


PAUL  GROWS  MORE  AND  MORE  OLD-FASIIIONED.     K^iJ 

"We'll  go  home  together,  and  I'll  nurse  you,  love,"  said 
Florence. 

"  Nurse  me  !  "  echoed  Paul. 

Paul  couldn't  understand  what  that  had  to  do  with  it,  nor 
why  the  two  young  women  looked  on  so  seriously,  nor  why 
Florence  turned  away  her  face  for  a  moment,  and  then  turned 
it  back,  lighted  up  again  with  smiles. 

"  Floy,"  said  Paul,  holding  a  ringlet  of  her  dark  hair  in  his 
hand.  "  Tell  me,  dear.  Do  yoic  think  I  have  grown  old-fash- 
ioned ?" 

His  sister  laughed  and  fondled  him,  and  told  him  "No." 

"  Because  I  know  they  say  so,"  returned  Paul,  "  and  I  want 
to  know  what  they  mean,  Floy." 

But  a  loud  double  knock  coming  at  the  door,  and  Florence 
hurrying  to  the  table,  there  was  no  more  said  between  them. 
Paul  wondered  again  when  he  saw  his  friend  whisper  to  Flor- 
ence, as  if  she  were  comforting  her ;  but  a  new  arrival  put  that 
out  of  his  head  speedily. 

It  was  Sir  Barnet  Skettles,  Lady  Skettles,  and  Master  Sket- 
tles.  Master  Skettles  was  to  be  a  new  boy  after  the  vacation, 
and  Fame  had  been  busy,  in  Mr.  Feeder's  room,  with  his 
father,  who  was  in  the  House  of  Commons,  and  of  whom  Mr. 
Feeder  had  said  that  when  he  did  catch  the  Speaker's  eye 
(which  he  had  been  expected  to  do  for  three  or  four  years),  it 
was  anticipated  that  he  would  rather  touch  up  the  Radicals. 

"  And  what  room  is  this  now,  for  instance  ?  "  said  Lady 
Skettles  to  Paul's  friend,  'Melia. 

"  Doctor  Blimber's  study,  Ma'am,"  was  the  reply. 

Lady  Skettles  took  a  panoramic  survey  of  it  through  her 
glass,  and  said  to  Sir  Barnet  Skettles,  with  a  nod  of  approval, 
**  Very  good."  Sir  Barnet  assented,  but  Master  Skettles  looked 
suspicious  and  doubtful. 

"  And  this  little  creature,  now,"  said  Lady  Skettles,  turning 
to  Paul.     "  Is  he  one  of  the — " 

"  Young  gentlemen,  Ma'am ;  yes,  Ma'am,"  said  Paul's 
friend, 

"  And  what  is  your  name,  my  pale  child }  "  said  Lady 
Skettles. 

"  Dombey,"  answered  Paul. 

Sir  Barnet  Skettles  immediately  interposed,  and  said  that 
he  had  had  the  honor  of  meeting  Paul's  father  at  a  public 
dinner,  and  that  he  hoped  he  was  very  well.  Then  Paul  heard 
him  say  to  Lady  Skettles,  "  City — very  rich — most  respectable 
— Doctor  mentioned  it."     And  then  he  said  to  Paul,  "Will 


1^6  DOMnEY  AND  SOK\ 

you  tell  your  good  Papa  that  Sir  Barnet  Skettles  rejoiced 
to  hear  that  he  was  very  well,  and  sent  him  his  best  compli- 
ments ?  " 

"  Yes,  Sir,"  answered  Paul. 

"  That  is  my  brave  boy, ''  said  Sir  Barnet  Skettles. 
"  Barnet,"  to  Master  Skettles,  who  was  revenging  himself  for 
the  studies  to  come,  on  the  plum-cake,  "  this  is  a  young  gentle- 
man you  ought  to  know.  This  is  a  young  gentleman  you  may 
know,  Barnet,"  said  Sir  Barnet  Skettles,  with  an  emphasis  oTi 
the  permission. 

"  What  eyes  !  What  hair  !  What  a  lovely  face  !  "  exclaimed 
Lady  Skettles  softly,  as  she  looked  at  Florence  through  her 
glass. 

"  My  sister,"  said  Paul,  presenting  her. 

The  satisfaction  of  the  Skettleses  was  now  complete.  And 
as  Lady  Skettles  had  conceived,  at  first  sight,  a  liking  for  Paul, 
they  all  went  up  stairs  together  :  Sir  Barnet  Skettles  taking  care 
of  Florence,  and  young  Barnet  following. 

Young  Barnet  did  not  remain  long  in  the  background  after 
th  Jy  had  reached  the  drawing-room,  for  Doctor  Blimber  had 
him  out  in  no  time,  dancing  with  Florence.  He  did  not  appear 
to  Paul  to  be  particularly  happy,  or  particularly  anything  but 
sulky,  or  to  care  much  what  he  was  about ;  but  as  Paul  heard 
Lady  Skettles  say  to  Mrs.  Blimber,  while  she  beat  time  with 
her  fan,  that  her  dear  boy  was  evidently  smitten  to  death  by 
that  angel  of  a  child.  Miss  Dombey,  it  would  seem  that  Skettles 
Junior  was  in  a  state  of  bliss,  without  showing  it. 

Little  Paul  thought  it  a  singular  coincidence  that  nobody 
had  occupied  his  place  among  the  pillows  ;  and  that  when  he 
came  into  the  room  again,  they  should  all  make  way  for  him  to 
go  back  to  it,  remembering  it  was  his.  Nobody  stood  before 
him  either,  when  they  obserxed  that  he  liked  to  see  Florence 
dancing,  but  they  left  the  space  in  front  quite  clear,  so  that  he 
might  follow  her  with  his  eyes.  They  were  so  kind,  too,  even 
the  strangers,  of  whom  there  were  soon  a  great  many,  that  they 
came  and  spoke  to  him  ever)'  now  and  then,  and  asked  him 
how  he  was,  and  if  his  head  ached,  and  whether  he  was  tired. 
He  was  very  much  obliged  to  them  for  all  their  kindness  and 
attention,  and  reclining  propped  up  in  his  corner,  with  Mrs. 
Blimber  and  Lady  Skettles  on  the  same  sofa,  and  Florence 
coming  and  sitting  by  his  side  as  soon  as  every  dance  was 
ended,  he  looked  on  very  happily  indeed. 

Florence  would  have  sat  by  him  all  night,  and  would  not 
have  danced  at  all  of  her  own  accord,  but  Paul  made  her,  by 


PAUL  GROWS  MORE  AND  MORE  OLD-FASHIONED,      ig-j 

telling  her  how  much  it  pleased  him.  And  he  told  her  the 
truth,  too  ;  for  his  small  heart  swelled,  and  his  face  glowed, 
when  he  saw  how  much  they  all  admired  her,  and  how  she  was 
the  beautiful  little  rosebud  of  the  room. 

From  his  nest  among  the  pillows,  Paul  could  see  and  heat 
almost  everything  that  passed,  as  if  the  whole  were  being  done 
for  his  amusement.  Among  other  little  incidents  that  he  ob- 
served, he  observed  Mr.  Baps  the  dancing  master  get  into  con- 
versation with  Sir  Barnet  Skettles,  and  very  soon  ask  him,  as 
he  had  asked  Mr.  Toots,  what  you  were  to  do  with  your  raw 
materials,  when  they  came  into  your  ports  in  return  for  your 
drain  of  gold — which  was  such  a  mystery  to  Paul  that  he  was 
quite  desirous  to  know  what  ought  to  be  done  with  them.  Sir 
Barnet  Skettles  had  much  to  say  upon  the  question,  and  said 
it ;  but  it  did  not  appear  to  solve  the  question,  for  Mr.  Baps 
retorted,  Yes,  but  supposing  Russia  stepped  in  with  her 
tallows  ;  which  struck  Sir  Barnet  almost  dumb,  for  he  could 
only  shake  his  head  after  that,  and  say,  why  then  you  must  fall 
back  upon  your  cottons,  he  supposed. 

Sir  Barnet  Skettles  looked  after  Mr.  Baps  when  he  went  to 
cheer  up  Mrs.  Baps  (who,  being  quite  deserted,  was  pretending 
to  look  over  the  music-book  of  the  gentleman  who  played  the 
harp),  as  if  he  thought  him  a  remarkable  kind  of  man  ;  and 
shortly  afterwards  he  said  so  in  those  words  to  Dr.  Blimber, 
and  inquired  if  he  might  take  the  liberty  of  asking  who  he  was, 
and  whether  he  had  ever  been  in  the  Board  of  Trade.  Doctor 
Blimber  answered  no,  he  believed  not ;  and  that  in  fact  he  was 
a  Professor  of — 

"  Of  something  connected  with  statistics,  I'll  swear  .^"ob- 
served Sir  Barnet  Skettles. 

"  Why  no.  Sir  Barnet,"  replied  Dr.  Blimber,  rubbing  his 
chin.     *'  No,  not  exactly." 

"  Figures  of  some  sort,  I  would  venture  a  bet,"  said  Sir 
Barnet  Skettles. 

"  Why  yes,"  said  Dr.  Blimber,  "  yes,  but  not  of  that  sort. 
Mr.  Baps  is  a  very  worthy  sort  of  man,  Sir  Barnet,  and — in  fact 
he's  our  professor  of  dancing." 

Paul  was  amazed  to  see  that  this  piece  of  information  quite 
altered  Sir  Barnet  Skettles'  opinion  of  Mr.  Baps,  and  that  Sir 
Barnet  flew  into  a  perfect  rage,  and  glowered  at  Mr.  Baps  over 
on  the  other  side  of  the  room.  He  even  went  so  far  as  to  D 
Mr.  Baps  to  Lady  Skettles,  in  telling  her  what  had  happened, 
and  to  say  that  it  was  like  his  most  con-siim-mate  and  eon* 
Coimded  impudenp^ 


1^8  DOMBEY  AXD  SON. 

There  was  another  thing  that  Paul  observed.  Mr.  Feeder 
after  imbibing  several  custard-cups  of  negus,  began  to  enjoy 
liimself.  The  dancing  in  general  was  ceremonious,  and  the 
music  rather  solemn — a  little  like  church  music  in  fact — but 
after  the  custard-cups,  Mr.  Feeder  told  Mr.  Toots  that  he  was 
going  to  throw  a  little  spirit  into  the  thing.  After  that,  Mr. 
Feeder  not  only  began  to  dance  as  if  he  meant  dancing  and 
nothing  else,  but  secretly  to  stimulate  the  music  to  perform 
wild  tunes.  Further,  he  became  particular  in  his  attentions  to 
the  ladies  ;  and  dancing  with  Miss  Blimber,  whispered  to  her — • 
whispered  to  her  ! — though  not  so  softly  but  that  Paul  heard 
him  say  this  remarkable  poetrj^, 

"  Had  I  a  heart  for  falsehood  framed, 
I  ne'er  could  injure  You  !  " 

This,  Paul  heard  him  repeat  to  four  young  ladies  in  succession. 
Well  might  Mr.  Feeder  say  to  Mr.  Toots,  that  he  was  afraid  he 
should  be  the  worse  for  it  to-morrow ! 

Mrs.  Blimber  was  a  little  alarmed  by  this — comparatively 
speaking — profligate  behavior  ;  and  especially  by  the  alteration 
in  the  character  of  the  music,  which,  beginning  to  comprehend 
low  melodies  that  were  popular  in  the  streets,  might  not  un- 
naturally be  supposed  to  give  offence  to  Lady  Skettles.  But 
Lady  Skettles  was  so  very  kind  as  to  beg  Mrs,  Blimber  not  to 
mention  it  ;  and  to  receive  her  explanation  that  Mr.  Feeder's 
spirits  sometimes  betrayed  him  into  excesses  on  these  occasions, 
with  the  greatest  courtesy  and  politeness  ;  observing,  that  he 
seemed  a  very  nice  sort  of  person  for  his  situation,  and  that  she 
particularly  liked  the  unassuming  style  of  his  hair — which  (as 
already  hinted)  was  about  a  quarter  of  an  inch  long. 

Once,  when  there  was  a  pause  in  the  dancing.  Lady  Skettles 
told  Paul  that  he  seemed  very  fond  of  music.  Paul  replied, 
that  he  was  ;  and  if  she  was  too,  she  ought  to  hear  his  sister, 
Florence,  sing.  Lady  Skettles  presently  discoverd  that  she 
was  dying  with  anxiety  to  have  tliat  gratification  ;  and  though 
Florence  was  at  first  very  much  frightened  at  being  asked  to 
sing  before  so  many  people,  and  begged  earnestly  to  be  ex- 
cused, yet,  on  Paul  calling  her  to  him,  and  saying,  "  Do,  Floy  1 
Please  !  For  me,  my  dear  !  "  she  went  straight  to  the  piano, 
and  began.  When  they  all  drew  a  little  away,  that  Paul  might 
see  her  ;  and  when  he  saw  her  sitting  there  alone,  so  young, 
and  good,  and  beautiful,  and  kind  to  him  ;  and  heard  her 
thrilling  voice,  so  natural  and  sweet,  and  such  a  golden  link 
between  him  and  all  his  life's  love  and  happiness,  rising  out  of 
the  silence ;  he  turned  his  face  away,  and  hid  his  tears.     Not, 


PAUL  GROWS  MORE  AA/B  MORE  OLD-FASIIIONED. 


'99 


as  he  told  them  when  they  spoke  to  him,  not  that  the  music 
was  too  plaintive  or  too  sorrowful,  but  it  was  so  dear  to  him. 

They  all  loved  Florence  !  How  could  they  help  it !  Paul 
had  known  beforehand  that  they  must  and  would ;  and  sitting 
in  his  cushioned  corner,  with  calmly  folded  hands,  and  one  leg 
loosely  doubled  under  him,  few  would  have  thought  what  tri- 
umph and  delight  expanded  his  childish  bosom  when  he 
watched  her,  or  what  a  sweet  tranquillity  he  felt.  Lavish  en- 
comiums on  "  Dombey's  sister  "  reached  his  ears  from  all  the 
boys  :  admiration  of  the  self-possessed  and  modest  little  beauty 
was  on  every  lip  :  reports  of  her  intelligence  and  accomplish- 
ments floated  past  him,  constantly  :  and,  as  if  borne  in  upon 
the  air  of  the  summer  night,  there  was  a  half-intelligible  senti- 
ment diffused  around,  referring  to  Florence  and  himself,  and 
breathing  sympathy  for  both,  that  soothed  and  touched  him. 

He  did  not  know  why.  For  all  that  the  child  observed, 
and  felt,  and  thought,  that  night — the  present  and  the  absent ; 
what  was  then  and  what  had  been — were  blended  like  the 
colors  in  the  rainbow,  or  in  the  plumage  of  rich  birds  when  the 
sun  is  shining  on  them,  or  in  the  softening  sky  when  the  same 
sun  is  setting.  The  many  things  he  had  had  to  think  of  lately, 
passed  before  him  in  the  music ;  not  as  claiming  his  attention 
over  again,  or  as  likely  evermore  to  occupy  it,  but  as  peace- 
fully disposed  of  and  gone.  A  solitary  window,  gazed  through 
years  ago,  looked  out  upon  an  ocean,  miles  and  miles  away ; 
upon  its  waters,  fancies,  busy  with  him  only  yesterday,  were 
hushed  and  lulled  to  rest  like  broken  waves.  The  same  mys- 
terious murmur  he  had  wondered  at,  when  lying  on  his  couch 
upon  the  beach,  he  thought  he  still  heard  sounding  through  his 
sister's  song,  and  through  the  hum  of  voices,  and  the  tread  of 
feet,  and  having  some  part  in  the  faces  flitting  by,  and  even  in 
the  heavy  gentleness  of  Mr.  Toots,  who  frequently  came  up  to 
shake  him  by  the  hand.  Through  the  universal  kindness  he 
still  thought  he  heard  it,  speaking  to  him  ;  and  even  his  old- 
fashioned  reputation  seemed  to  be  allied  to  it,  he  knew  not 
how.  Thus  little  Paul  sat  musing,  listening,  looking  on,  and 
dreaming  ;  and  was  very  happy. 

Until  the  time  arrived  for  taking  leave  :  and  then,  indeed, 
there  was  a  sensation  in  the  party.  Sir  Barnet  Skettles  brought 
up  Skettles  Junior  to  shake  hands  with  him,  and  asked  him  if 
he  would  remember  to  tell  his  good  Papa,  with  his  best  com- 
pliments, that  he.  Sir  Barnet  Skettles,  had  said  he  hoped  the 
two  young  gentlemen  would  become  intimately  acquainted. 
Lady  Skettles  kissed  him,  and  parted  his  hair  upon  his  brow, 


iOd  JDOMBE  Y  AMD  SOaT. 

and  held  him  in  her  arms  ;  and  even  Mrs.  Baps — poor  Mrs 
Baps  !  Paul  was  glad  of  that — came  over  from  beside  the 
music-book  of  the  gentleman  who  played  the  harp,  and  took 
leave  of  him  quite  as  heartily  as  anybody  in  the  room. 

"  Good-by,  Doctor  Blimber,"  said  Paul,  stretching  out  his 
hand. 

"  Good-by,  my  little  friend,"  returned  the  Doctor. 

"  I'm  very  much  obliged  to  you,  Sir,"  said  Paul,  looking 
innocently  up  into  his  awful  face.  "  Ask  them  to  take  care  of 
Diogenes,  if  you  please." 

Diogenes  was  the  dog  :  who  had  never  in  his  life  received  a 
friend  into  his  confidence,  before  Paul.  The  Doctor  promised 
that  every  attention  should  be  paid  to  Diogenes  in  Paul's  ab- 
sence, and  Paul  having  again  thanked  him,  and  shaken  hands 
with  him,  bade  adieu  to  Mrs.  Blimber  and  Cornelia  with  such 
heartfelt  earnestness  that  Mrs.  Blimber  forgot  from  that  mo- 
ment to  mention  Cicero  to  Lady  Skettles,  though  she  had 
fully  intended  it  all  the  evening.  Cornelia,  takmg  both  Paul's 
hands  in  hers,  said,  "  I3ombey,  Dombey,  you  have  always  been 
my  favorite  pupil  God  bless  you  !  "  And  it  showed,  Paul 
thought,  how  easily  one  might  do  injustice  to  a  person ;  for 
Miss  Blimber   meant  it — though  she  was  a  Forcer. 

A  buzz  then  went  round  among  the  young  gentlemen,  of 
"  Dombey's  going!"  "Little  Dombey's  going!"  and  there 
was  a  general  move  after  Paul  and  Florence  down  the  staircase 
and  into  the  hall,  in  which  the  whole  Blimber  family  were  in- 
cluded. Such  a  circumstance,  Mr.  Feeder  said  aloud,  as  had 
never  happened  in  the  case  of  any  former  young  gentleman 
within  his  experience ;  but  it  would  be  difficult  to  say  if  this 
were  sober  fact  or  custard-cups.  The  servants  with  the  butler 
at  their  head,  had  all  an  interest  in  seeing  Little  Dombey  go  j 
and  even  the  weak-eyed  young  man,  taking  out  his  books  and 
trunks  to  the  coach  that  was  to  carry  him  and  Florence  to  Mrs. 
Pipchin's  for  the  night,  melted  visibly. 

Not  even  the  influence  of  the  softer  passion  on  the  young 
gentlemen — and  they  all,  to  a  boy,  doated  on  Florence — could 
restrain  them  from  taking  quite  a  noisy  leave  of  Paul  ;  waving 
hats  after  him,  pressing  down  stairs  to  shake  hands  with  him, 
crying  individually,  "  Dombey,  don't  forget  me  !  "  and  indulg- 
ing in  many  such  ebullitiot.s  of  feeling,  uncommon  among 
those  young  Chesterfields.  Paul  whispered  Florence,  as  she 
wrapped  him  up  before  the  door  was  opened,  Did  she  heat 
them.?  Would  she  ever  forget  it .?  Was  she  glad  to  know  it? 
And  a  lively  delight  was  in  his  eyes  as  he  spoke  to  her. 


PAUL  GROWS  MORE  AND  MORE  OLD-FASHIONED.     20I 

Once,  for  a  last  look,  he  turned  and  gazed  upon  the  faces 
thus  addressed  to  him,  surprised  to  see  how  shining  and  how 
bright,  and  numerous  they  were,  and  how  they  were  all  piled 
and  heaped  up,  as  faces  are  at  crowded  theatres.  They  swam 
before  him  as  he  looked,  like  faces  in  an  agitated  glass  ;  and 
next  moment  he  was  in  the  dark  coach  outside,  holding  close 
to  Florence.  From  that  time,  whenever  he  thought  of  Doctor 
Bhmber's,  it  came  back  as  he  had  seen  it  in  this  last  view ; 
and  it  never  seemed  to  be  a  real  place  again,  but  always  a 
dream,  full  of  eyes. 

This  was  not  quite  the  last  of  Doctor  Blimber's,  however. 
There  was  something  else.  There  was  Mr.  Toots.  Who,  un- 
expectedly letting  down  one  of  the  coach-windows,  and  looking 
in,  said,  with  a  most  egregious  chuckle,  "  Is  Dombey  there  ? " 
and  immediately  put  it'up  again,  without  waiting  for  an  answer. 
Nor  was  this  quite  the  last  of  Mr.  Toots,  even  ;  for  before  the 
coachman  could  drive  off,  he  as  suddenly  let  down  the  other 
window,  and  looking  in  with  a  precisely  similar  chuckle,  said  in 
a  precisely  similar  tone  of  voice,  "  Is  Dombey  there  ?  "  and  dis- 
appeared precisely  as  before. 

How  Florence  laughed !  Paul  often  remembered  it,  and 
laughed  himself  whenever  he  did  so. 

But  there  was  much,  soon  afterwards — next  day,  and  after 
that — which  Paul  could  only  recollect  confusedly.  As,  why 
they  stayed  at  Mrs.  Pipchin's  days  and  nights,  instead  of  going 
home  ;  why  he  lay  in  bed,  with  Florence  sitting  by  his  side  ; 
whether  that  had  been  his  father  in  the  room,  or  only  a  tall 
shadow  on  the  wall  ;  whether  he  had  heard  his  doctor  say,  of 
some  one,  that  if  they  had  removed  him  before  the  occasion 
on  which  he  had  built  up  fancies,  strong  in  proportion  to  his 
own  weakness,  it  was  very  possible  he  might  have  pined  away. 

He  could  not  even  remember  whether  he  had  often  said  to 
Florence,  "  Oh  Floy,  take  me  home,  and  never  leave  me  !  "  but 
he  thought  he  had.  He  fancied  sometimes  he  had  heard  him- 
self repeating,  "  Take  me  home,  Floy !  take  me  home  !  " 

But  he  could  remember,  when  he  got  home,  and  was  carried 
up  the  well-remembered  stairs,  that  there  had  been  the  rumb- 
ling of  a  coach  for  many  hours  together,  while  he  lay  upon  the 
seat,  with  Florence  still  beside  him,  and  old  Mrs.  Pipchin  sit- 
ting opposite.  He  remembered  his  old  bed  too,  when  they  laid 
him  down  in  it :  his  aunt.  Miss  Tox,  and  Susan  :  but  there  was 
something  else,  and  recent  too,  that  still  perplexed  him. 

"  I  want  to  speak  to  Florence,  if  you  please,"  he  said, 
••  To  Florence  by  herself,  for  a  moment  1 " 


202  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

She  bent  down  over  him,  and  the  others  stood  away. 

"  Floy,  my  pet,  wasn't  that  Papa  in  the  hall,  when  they 
brought  me  from  the  coach  ?  " 

"  Yes,  dear." 

"  He  didn't  cry,  and  go  into  his  room,  Floy,  did  he,  when 
he  saw  me  coming  in  ?  " 

Florence  shook  her  head,  and  pressed  her  lips  against  his 
cheek. 

"  I'm  very  glad  he  didn't  cry,"  said  little  Paul.  "  I  thought 
he  did.     Don't  tell  them  that  I  asked." 


CHAPTER  XV. 


AMAZING    ARTFULNESS    OF    CAPTAIN   CUTTLE,   AND   A    NEW   PUR- 
SUIT FOR  WALTER  GAY. 

Walter  could  not,  for  several  days,  decide  what  to  do  in 
the  Barbados  business  ;  and  even  cherished  some  faint  hope 
that  Mr.  Dombey  might  not  have  meant  what  he  had  said,  or 
that  he  might  change  his  mind,  and  tell  him  he  was  not  to  go. 
But  as  nothing  occurred  to  give  this  idea  (which  was  sufficiently 
improbable  in  itself)  any  touch  of  confirmation,  and  as  time 
was  slipping  by,  and  he  had  none  to  lose,  he  felt  that  he  must 
act,  without  hesitating  any  longer. 

Walter's  chief  difficulty  was,  how  to  break  the  change  in 
his  affairs  to  Uncle  Sol,  to  whom  he  was  sensible  it  would  be 
a  terrible  blow.  He  had  the  greater  difficulty  in  dashing 
Uncle  Sol's  spirits  with  such  an  astounding  piece  of  intelli- 
gence, because  they  had  lately  recovered  very  much,  and  the 
old  man  had  become  so  cheerful,  that  the  little  back  parlor 
was  itself  again.  Uncle  Sol  had  paid  the  iirst  appointed  portic  n 
of  the  debt  to  Mr,  Dombey,  and  was  hopeful  of  working  his  way 
through  the  rest ;  and  to  cast  him  down  afresh,  when  he  had 
sprung  up  so  manfully  from  his  troubles,  was  a  very  distress- 
ing necessity. 

Yet  it  would  never  do  to  run  away  from  him.  He  must 
know  of  it  beforehand  :  and  how  to  tell  him  was  the  point.  As 
to  the  question  of  going  or  not  going,  Walter  did  not  consider 
that  he  had  any  power  of  choice  in  the  matter.  Mr,  Dombey 
had  truly  told  him  that  he  was  young,  and  that  his  uncle's  cir- 
cumstances were   not   good ;    and  Mr.  Dombey   had   plainly 


AMAZLYG  ARTFULNESS  OF  CAPTAIX  CUTTLE. 


203 


expressed,  in  the  glance  with  which  lie  had  accompanied  that 
reminder,  that  if  he  dechned  to  go  he  might  stay  at  home  if 
he  chose,  but  not  in  his  counting-house.  His  uncle  and  he  lay 
under  a  great  obligation  to  Mr,  Dombey,  which  was  of  Walter's 
own  soliciting.  He  might  have  begun  in  secret  to  despair  ot 
ever  winning  that  gentleman's  favor,  and  might  have  thought 
that  he  was  now  and  then  disposed  to  put  a  slight  upon  him, 
which  was  hardly  just.  But  what  would  have  been  duty  with- 
out that,  was  still  duty  with  it — or  Walter  thought  so — and  duty 
must  be  done. 

When  Mr.  Dombey  had  looked  at  him,  and  told  him  he 
was  young,  and  that  his  uncle's  circumstances  were  not  good, 
there  had  been  an  expression  of  disdain  in  his  face  ;  a  con- 
temptuous and  disparaging  assumption  that  he  would  be  quite 
content  to  live  idly  on  a  reduced  old  man,  which  stung  the 
boy's  generous  soul.  Determined  to  assure  Mr.  Dombey,  in 
so  far  as  it  was  possible  to  give  him  the  assurance  without 
expressing  it  in  words,  that  indeed  he  mistook  his  nature,  Wal- 
ter had  been  anxious  to  show  even  more  cheerfulness  and 
activity  after  the  West  Indian  interview  than  he  had  shown 
before  :  if  that  were  possible,  in  one  of  his  quick  and  zealous 
disposition.  He  was  too  young  and  inexperienced  to  think, 
that  possibly  this  very  quality  was  not  agreeable  to  Mr.  Dom- 
bey, and  that  it  was  no  stepping-stone  to  his  good  opinion  to 
be  elastic  and  hopeful  of  pleasing  under  the  shadow  of  his 
powerful  displeasure,  whether  it  were  right  or  wrong.  But  it 
may  have  been — it  may  have  been — that  the  great  man  thought 
himself  defied  in  this  new  exposition  of  an  honest  spirit,  and 
purposed  to  bring  it  down. 

"  Well  !  at  least  and  at  last.  Uncle  Sol  must  be  told," 
thought  Walter,  with  a  sigh.  And  as  Walter  was  apprehensive 
that  his  voice  might  perhaps  quaver  a  little,  and  that  his  coun- 
tenance might  not  be  quite  as  hopeful  as  he  could  wish  it  to  be 
if  he  told  the  old  man  himself,  and  saw  the  first  effects  of  his 
communication  on  his  wrinkled  face,  he  resolved  to  avail  him- 
self of  the  services  of  that  powerful  mediator,  Captain  Cuttle. 
Sunday  coming  round,  he  set  off,  therefore,  after  breakfast, 
once  more  to  beat  up  Captain  Cuttle's  quarters. 

It  was  not  unpleasant  to  remember,  on  the  way  thither,  that 
Mrs.  MacStinger  resorted  to  a  great  distance  every  Sunday 
morning  to  attend  the  ministry  of  the  Reverend  Melchisedech 
Howler,  who,  having  been  one  day  discharged  from  the  West 
India  Docks  on  a  false  suspicion  (got  up  expressly  against  him 
by  the  general  enemy)  of  screwing  gimlets  into  puncheons,  and 


2  04  DOM  BE  Y  AND  SON. 

applying  liis  lips  to  the  orifice,  had  announced  the  destruction 
of  the  world  for  that  day  two  years,  at  ten  in  the  morning,  and 
opened  a  front  parlor  for  the  reception  of  ladies  and  gentlemen 
of  the  Ranting  persuasion,  upon  whom,  on  the  first  occasion  of 
their  assemblage,  the  admonitions  of  the  Reverend  Melchise- 
dech  had  produced  so  powerful  an  effect,  that,  in  their  rapturous 
performance  of  a  sacred  jig,  which  closed  the  service,  the 
whole  flock  broke  through  into  a  kitchen  below,  and  disabled  a 
mangle  belonging  to  one  of  the  fold. 

This  the  Captain,  in  a  moment  of  uncommon  conviviality, 
had  confided  to  Walter  and  his  uncle,  between  the  repetitions 
of  lovely  Peg,  on  the  night  when  Brogley  the  broker  was  paid 
out.  The  Captain  himself  was  punctual  in  his  attendance  at  a 
church  in  his  own  neighborhood,  which  hoisted  the  Union 
Jack  every  Sunday  morning  ;  and  where  he  was  good  enough 
— the  lawful  beadle  being  infirm — to  keep  an  eye  upon  the 
boys,  over  whom  he  exercised  great  power,  in  virtue  of  his  mys- 
terious hook.  Knowing  the  regularity  of  the  Captain's  habits, 
Walter  made  all  the  haste  he  could,  that  he  might  anticipate 
his  going  out  ;  and  he  made  such  good  speed,  that  he  had  the 
pleasure,  on  turning  into  Brig  Place,  to  behold  the  broad  blue 
coat  and  waistcoat  hanging  out  of  the  Captain's  open  window, 
to  air  in  the  sun. 

It  appeared  incredible  that  the  coat  and  waistcoat  could  be 
seen  by  mortal  eyes  without  the  Captain  :  but  he  certainly  was 
not  in  them,  otherwise  his  legs — the  houses  in  Brig  Place  not 
being  lofty — would  have  obstructed  the  street  door,  which  was 
perfectly  clear.  Quite  wondering  at  this  discovery,  Walter  gave 
a  single  knock. 

"  Stinger,"  he  distinctly  heard  the  Captain  say,  up  in  his 
room,  as  if  that  were  no  business  of  his.  Therefore  Walter 
gave  two  knocks. 

"  Cuttle,"  he  heard  the  Captain  say  upon  that ;  and  imme- 
'diately  afterwards  the  Captain,  in  his  clean  shirt  and  braces, 
with  his  neckerchief  hanging  loosely  round  his  throat  like  a 
coil  of  rope,  and  his  glazed  hat  on,  appeared  at  the  window, 
leaning  out  over  the  broad  blue  coat  and  waistcoat. 

"  Wal'r  !  "  cried  the  Captain,  looking  down  upon  him  in 
amazement. 

"  Ay,  ay.  Captain  Cuttle,"  returned  Walter,  "  only  me." 

"  What's  the  matter,  my  lad  .'  "  inquired  the  Captain,  with 
great  concern.     "  Gills  ant  been  and  sprung  nothing  again  .''  " 

"  No,  no,"  said  Walter.  *'  My  uncle's  all  right,  Captaiq 
Cuttle."  ^  ^ 


AMAZING  ARTFULNESS  OF  CAPTAIN  CUTTLF.      205 

The  Captain  expressed  his  gratification,  and  said  he  would 
come  down  below  and  open  the  door,  which  he  did. 

"  Though  you're  early,  Wal'r,"  said  the  Captain,  eyeing 
him  still  doubtfully,  when  they  got  up  stairs. 

"  Why,  the  fact  is,  Captain  Cuttle,"  said  Walter,  sitting 
down,  "  1  was  afraid  you  would  have  gone  out,  and  I  want  to 
benefit  by  your  friendly  counsel." 

"  So  you  shall,"  said  the  Captain  ;  "  what'll  you  take  ?  " 
"  I  want  to  take  your  opinion.  Captain  Cuttle,"  returned 
Walter,  smiling.     "  That's  the  only  thing  for  me." 

"  Come  on  then,"  said  the  Captain.  "  With  a  will,  my  lad  !  " 
Walter  related  to  him  what  had  happened  ;  and  the  difficulty 
in  which  he  felt  respecting  his  uncle,  and  the  relief  it  would  be 
to  him  if  Captain  Cuttle,  in  his  kindness,  would  help  him  to 
smooth  it  away  ;  Captain  Cuttle's  infinite  consternation  and 
astonishment  at  the  prospect  unfolded  to  him,  gradually  swallow- 
ing that  gentleman  up,  until  it  left  his  face  quite  vacant,  and 
the  suit  of  blue,  the  glazed  hat,  and  the  hook,  apparently  with- 
out an  owner. 

"  You  see.  Captain  Cuttle,"  pursued  Walter,  "for  myself,  I 
am  young,  as  Mr.  Dombey  said,  and  not  to  be  considered.  I 
am  to  fight  my  way  through  the  world,  I  know ;  but  there  are 
two  points  I  was  thinking,  as  I  came  along  that  I  should  be 
very  particular  about,  in  respect  to  my  uncle.  I  don't  mean  to 
say  that  I  deserve  to  be  the  pride  and  delight  of  his  life — you 
believe  me,  I  know — out  I  am.  Now,  don't  you  think  I  am  ? " 
The  Captain  seemed  to  make  an  endeavor  to  rise  from  the 
depths  of  his  astonishment,  and  get  back  to  his  face  ;  but  the 
effort  being  ineffectual,  the  glazed  hat  merely  nodded  with  a 
mute,  unutterable  meaning. 

"  If  I  live  and  have  my  health,"  said  Walter,  "  and  I  am 
not  afraid  of  that,  still,  when  I  leave  England  I  can  hardly  hope 
to   see   my   uncle   again.      He    is   old.   Captain    Cuttle ;   and 

besides,  his  life  is  a  life  of  custom " 

"  Steady,  Wal'r  !  Of  a  want  of  custom  ?  "  said- the  Captain, 
suddenly  reappearing. 

"  Too  true,"  returned  Walter,  shaking  his  head  ;  "  but  I 
meant  a  life  of  habit.  Captain  Cuttle — that  sort  of  custom. 
And  if  (as  you  very  truly  said,  I  am  sure)  he  would  have  died 
the  sooner  for  the  loss  of  the  stock,  and  all  those  objects  to 
which  he  has  been  accustomed  for  so  many  years,  don't  you 

think  he  might  die  a  little  sooner  for  the  loss  of " 

"  Of  his  Nevy,"  interposed  the  Captain.     "  Right !  " 

*'  Well  then,"  said  Walter,  trying  to  speak  gayly,  "  we  must 


2  o6  £>  OMBE  \ '  A  ND  SON-. 

do  our  best  to  make  him  believe  that  the  separation  is  but  d 
temporary  one,  after  all  ;  but  as  1  know  better,  or  dread  that  I 
know  better,  Captain  Cuttle,  and  as  I  have  so  many  reasons 
for  regarding  him  with  affection,  and  duty,  and  honor,  1  am 
afraid  I  should  make  but  a  very  poor  hand  at  that,  if  I  tried  to 
persuade  him  of  it.  That's  my  great  reason  for  wishing  you  to 
break  it  out  to  him  ;  and  tliat's  the  lirst  point." 

"  Keep  her  off  a  point  or  so  !  "  observed  the  Captain,  in  a 
contemplative  voice. 

"  What  did  you  say.  Captain  Cuttle  t  "  inquired  Walter. 

"  Stand  by !  "  returned  the  Captain,  thoughtfully. 

Walter  paused  to  ascertain  if  the  Captain  had  any  particulai 
information  to  add  to  this,  but  as  he  said  no  more,  went  on. 

"  Now,  the  second  point,  Captain  Cuttle.  I  am  sorry  to 
say,  I  am  not  a  favorite  with  Mr.  Dombey.  I  have  always 
tried  to  do  my  best,  and  I  have  always  done  it ;  but  he  deos 
not  like  me.  He  can't  help  his  likings  and  dislikings,  perhaps. 
I  say  nothing  of  that.  I  only  say  that  I  am  certain  he  does 
not  like  me.  He  does  not  send  me  to  this  post  as  a  good  one  ; 
he  disdains  to  represent  it  as  being  better  than  it  is  ;  and  I 
doubt  very  much  if  it  will  ever  lead  me  to  advancement  m  the 
House — whether  it  does  not,  on  the  contrary,  dispose  of  me  for 
ever,  and  put  me  out  of  the  way.  Now,  we  must  say  nothing  of 
this  to  my  uncle.  Captain  CuttJe,  but  must  make  it  out  to  be  as 
favorable  and  promising  as  we  can  ;  and  when  I  tell  you  what 
it  really  is,  I  only  do  so,  that  in  case  any  means  should  ever 
arise  of  lending  me  a  hand,  so  far  off,  I  may  have  one  friend 
at  home  who  knows  my  real  situation." 

"  Wal'r,  my  boy,"  replied  the  Captain,  "  in  the  Proverbs  of 
Solomon  you  will  find  the  following  words,  '  May  we  never 
want  a  friend  in  need,  nor  a  bottle  to  give  him  ! '  When  found, 
make  a  note  of." 

Here  the  Captain  stretched  out  his  hand  to  Walter,  with  an 
air  of  downright  good  faith  that  spoke  volumes ;  at  the  same 
time  repeating  (for  lie  felt  proud  of  the  accuracy  and  pointed 
application  of  his  quotation),  "  When  found,  make  a  note  of." 

"  Captain  Cuttle,"  said  Walter,  taking  the  immense  fist 
extended  to  him  by  the  Captain  in  both  his  hands,  which  it 
completely  filled,  "  next  to  my  uncle  Sol,  I  love  you.  There  is 
no  one  on  earth  in  whom  1  can  more  safely  trust,  I  am  sure. 
As  to  the  mere  going  away.  Captain  Cuttle,  I  don't  care  for 
that ;  why  should  I  care  for  that !  If  I  were  free  to  seek  my 
own  fortune — if  I  were  free  to  go  as  a  common  sailor — if  I 
were  free  to  venture  on  my  own  account  to  the  farthest  end  of 


AMaZLVG  AkTFULMESS  OF  CAPTAIN  CVTTLE.     20) 

the  world — I  would  gladly  go  !  I  would  have  gladly  gone, 
years  ago,  and  taken  my  chance  of  what  might  come  of  it. 
But  it  was  against  my  uncle's  wishes,  and  against  the  plans  he 
had  formed  for  me ;  and  there  was  an  end  of  that.  But  what  I 
feel,  Captain  Cuttle,  is  that  we  have  been  a  little  mistaken  all 
along,  and  that,  so  far  as  any  improvement  in  my  prospects  is 
concerned,  I  am  no  better  off  now  than  I  was  when  I  first 
entered  Dombey's  House — perhaps  a  little  worse,  for  the 
House  may  have  been  kindly  inclined  towards  me  then,  and  it 
certainly  is  not  now." 

"  Turn  again,  Whittington,"  muttered  the  disconsolate 
Captain,  after  looking  at  Walter  for  some  time. 

"  Ay  ! "  replied  Walter,  laughing,  "  and  turn  a  great  many 
times,  too.  Captain  Cuttle,  I'm  afraid,  before  such  fortune  as 
his  ever  turns  up  again.  Not  that  I  complain,"  he  added,  in 
his  lively,  animated,  energetic  way.  "  I  have  nothing  to  com- 
plain of.  I  am  provided  for.  I  can  live.  When  I  leave  my 
uncle,  I  leave  him  to  you  ;  and  I  can  leave  him  to  no  one 
better,  Captain  Cuttle.  I  haven't  told  you  all  this  because  I 
despair,  not  I  ;  it's  ^o  convince  you  that  I  can't  pick  and 
choose  in  Dombey's  House,  and  that  where  I  am  sent,  there  I 
must  go,  and  what  I  am  offered,  that  I  must  take.  It's  better 
for  my  uncle  that  I  should  be  sent  away ;  for  Mr.  Dombey  is  a 
valuable  friend  to  him,  as  he  proved  himself,  you  know  when, 
Captain  Cuttle  ;  and  I  am  persuaded  he  won't  be  less  valuable 
when  he  hasn't  me  there,  every  day,  to  awaken  his  dislike.  So 
hurrah  for  the  West  Indies,  Captain  Cuttle  !  How  does  that 
tune  go  that  the  sailors  sing  ? 

"  For  the  Port  of  Barbados,  Boys! 

Cheerily! 
Leaving  old  England  behind  us,  Boys  1 

Cheerily!  " 

Here  the  Captain  roared  in  chorus — 

'■"Oil  cheerily,  cheerily! 

"  Oh  cheer— i — ly  I  " 

The  last  line  reaching  the  quick  ears  of  an  ardent  skipper 
not  quite  sober,  who  lodged  opposite,  and  who  instantly  sprung 
out  of  bed,  threw  up  his  window,  and  joined  in,  across  the 
street,  at  the  top  of  his  voice,  produced  a  fine  effect.  When 
it  was  impossible  to  sustain  the  concluding  note  any  longer, 
the  skipper  bellowed  forth  a  terrific  "ahoy  !  "  intended  in  part 
as  a  friendly  greeting,  and  in  part  to  show  that  he  was  not  at 
all  breathed.  That  done,  he  shut  down  his  window,  and  went 
to  bed  again. 


2o8  DOMBEY  AND  .^ON-. 

"And  now,  Captain  Cuttle,"  said  Walter,  handing  him  th6 
bkie  coat  and  waistcoat,  and  bustling  very  much,  "  if  you'll 
come  and  break  the  news  to  Uncle  Sol  (which  he  ought  to  have 
known,  days  upon  days  ago,  by  rights),  I'll  leave  you  at  the  door, 
you  know,  and  walk  about  until  the  afternoon." 

The  Captain,  however,  scarcely  appeared  to  relish  the  com- 
mission, or  to  be  by  any  means  confident  of  his  powers  of  exe- 
cuting it.  He  had  arranged  the  future  life  and  adventures  of 
Walter  so  very  differently,  and  so  entirely  to  his  own  satisfac- 
tion ;  he  had  felicitated  himself  so  often  on  the  sagacity  and 
foresight  displayed  in  that  arrangement  and  had  found  it  so 
complete  and  perfect  in  all  its  parts  ;  that  to  suffer  it  to  go  to 
pieces  all  at  once,  and  even  to  assist  in  breaking  it  up,  required 
a  great  effort  of  his  resolution.  The  Captain,  too,  found  it 
difficult  to  unload  his  old  ideas  upon  the  subject,  and  to  take  a 
perfectly  new  cargo  on  board,  with  that  rapidity  which  the  cir- 
cumstances required,  or  without  jumbling  and  confounding  the 
two.  Consequently,  instead  of  putting  on  his  coat  and  waist- 
coat with  anything  like  the  impetuosity  that  could  alone  have 
kept  pace  with  Walter's  mood,  he  declined  to  invest  himself 
with  those  garments  at  all,  at  present ;  and  informed  Walter  that 
on  such  a  serious  matter,  he  must  be  allowed  to  "  bite  his  nails 
a  bit." 

"It's  an  old  habit  of  mine,  Wal'r,"  said  the  Captain,  "  any 
time  these  fifty  year.  When  you  see  Ned  Cuttle  bite  his  nails, 
Wal'r,  then  you  may  know  that  Ned  Cuttle's  aground." 

Thereupon  the  Captain  put  his  iron  hook  between  his  teeth, 
as  if  it  were  a  hand  ;  and  with  an  air  of  wisdom  and  profundity 
that  was  the  very  concentration  and  sublimation  of  all  philo- 
sophical reflection  and  grave  inquiry^  applied  himself  to  the 
consideration  of  the  subject  in  its  various  branches. 

"There's  a  friend  of  mine,"  murmured  the  Captain,  in  an 
absent  manner,  "but  he's  at  present  coasting  round  to  Whitby, 
that  would  deliver  such  an  opinion  on  this  subject,  or  any  other^ 
that  could  be  named,  as  would  give  Parliament  six  and  beat 
'em.  Been  knocked  overboard,  that  man,"  said  the  Captain, 
"  twice,  and  none  the  worse  for  it.  Was  beat  in  his  apprentice- 
ship, for  three  weeks  (off  and  on),  about  the  head  with  a  ring- 
bolt.    And  yet  a  clearer-minded  man  don't  walk." 

In  spite  of  his  respect  for  Captain  Cuttle,  Walter  could  not 
help  inwardly  rejoicing  at  the  absence  of  this  sage,  and  devoutly 
hoping  that  his  limpid  intellect  might  not  be  brought  to  bear  on 
his  difficulties  until  they  were  quite  settled. 

•*  If  you  was  to  take  and  show  that  man  the  buoj'  at  the 


AMAZnVG  ARTFULNESS  OF  CAPTAIN  CUTTLE. 


209 


Nore,"  said  Captain  Cuttle  in  the  same  tone,  "  and  ask  him  his 
opinion  of  it,  Wal'r,  he'd  give  you  an  opinion  that  was  no  more 
like  that  buoy  than  your  uncle's  buttons  are.  There  ain't  a 
man  that  walks — certainly  not  on  two  legs — that  can  come  near 
him.     Not  near  him  !  " 

"What's  his  name,  Captain  Cuttle?"  inquired  Waker,  de- 
termined to  be  interested  in  the  Captain's  friend. 

"  His  name's  Bunsby,"  said  the  Captain.  "  But  Lord,  it 
might  be  anything  for  the  matter  of  that,  with  such  a  mind  as 
i'is!" 

The  exact  idea  which  the  Captain  attached  to  this  conclud- 
ing piece  of  praise,  he  did  not  further  elucidate ;  neither  did 
Walter  seek  to  draw  it  forth.  For  on  his  beginning  to  review, 
with  the  vivacity  natural  to  himself  and  to  his  situation,  the 
leading  points  in  his  own  affairs,  he  soon  discovered  that  the 
Captain  had  relapsed  into  his  former  profound  state  of  mind  \ 
and  that  while  he  eyed  him  steadfastly  from  beneath  his  bushy 
eyebrows,  he  evidently  neither  saw  nor  heard  him,  but  remained 
immersed  in  cogitation. 

In  fact.  Captain  Cuttle  was  laboring  with  such  great  designs, 
that  far  from  being  aground,  he  soon  got  off  into  the  deepest 
of  water,  and  could  find  no  bottom  to  his  penetration.  By  de- 
grees it  became  perfectly  plain  to  the  Captain  that  there  was 
some  mistake  here  ;  that  it  was  undoubtedly  much  more  likely 
to  be  Walter's  mistake  than  his  ;  that  if  there  were  really  any 
West  India  scheme  afoot,  it  was  a  very  different  one  from  what 
Walter,  who  was  young  and  rash,  supposed  ;  and  could  only  be 
some  new  device  for  making  his  fortune  with  unusual  celerity. 
"  Or  if  there  should  be  any  little  hitch  between  'em,"  thought 
the  Captain,  meaning  between  Walter  and  Mr.  Dombey,  "  it 
only  wants  a  word  in  season  from  a  friend  of  both  parties,  to 
set 'it  right  and  smooth,  and  make  all  taut  again."  Captain 
Cuttle's  deduction  from  these  considerations  was,  that  as  he 
already  enjoyed  the  pleasure  of  knowing  Mr.  Dombey,  from 
having  spent  a  very  agreeable  half-hour  in  his  company  at 
Brighton  (on  the  morning  when  they  borrowed  the  money)  ; 
and  that,  as  a  couple  of  men  of  the  world,  who  understood 
each  other,  and  were  mutually  disposed  to  make  things  com- 
fortable, could  easily  arrange  any  little  difficulty  of  this  sort, 
and  come  at  the  real  facts  ;  the  friendly  thing  for  him  to  do 
would  be,  without  saying  anything  about  it  to  Walter  at  present, 
just  to  step  up  to  Mr.  Dombey's  house — say  to  the  servant 
"  Would  ye  be  so  good,  my  lad,  as  report  Cap'en  Cuttle  here  ?  " 
—meet  Mr.  Dombey  in  a  confidential  spirit — hook  him  by  the 


no  DOMBEY  A  .YD  SOM 

button-hole — talk  it  over — make  it  all  right — and  come  away 
triumphant ! 

As  these  reflections  presented  themselves  to  the  Captain's 
mind,  and  by  slow  degrees  assumed  this  shape  and  form,  his 
visagd  tleafed  like  a  doubtful  mofniiig  Whdil  It  gives  place  to  a 
bright  noon.  His  eyebrows,  which  had  been  in  the  highest  de- 
gree portentous,  smoothed  their  rugged  bristling  aspect,  and  be- 
came serene  ;  his  eyesj  which  had  been  nearly  closed  in  the 
severity  of  his  metital  exercise,  opened  freely  ;  a  smile  which 
had  been  at  first  but  three  specks — one  at  the  right-hand  corner 
of  his  mouth,  and  one  at  the  corner  of  each  eye — gradually 
overspread  his  whole  face,  and  rippling  up  into  his  forehead, 
lifted  the  glazed  hat :  as  if  that  too  had  been  aground  with 
Captain  Cuttle,  and  were  noWj  like  him,  happily  afloat  again. 

Finally  the  Captaiil  left  off  biting  his  nails,  and  said,  "  Now, 
Wal'r,  my  boy,  you  may  help  me  on  with  them  slops."  By 
which  the  Captain  meant  his  coat  and  waistcoat. 

Walter  little  imagined  why  the  Captain  was  so  particular  in 
the  arrangement  of  his  cravdt,  ds  to  twist  the  pendent  ends 
into  a  sort  of  pigtail,  and  pass  them  through  a  massive  gold 
l"lng  With  a  picture  of  a  tomb  upon  it,  and  a  neat  iron  railing, 
and  a  tree,  in  memory  of  some  deceased  friend.  Nor  why  the 
Captain  pulled  up  his  shirt  collar  to  the  utmost  limits  allowed 
by  the  Irish  linen  below,  and  by  so  doing  decorated  himself 
with  a  complete  pair  of  blinkers  ;  nor  why  he  changed  his  shoes, 
and  put  on  an  unparalleled  pair  of  ankle-jacks,  which  he  only 
\\o\Q  on  extraordinary  occasions.  The  Captain  being  at  length 
attired  to  his  own  complete  satisfaction,  and  having  glanced  at 
himself  from  head  to  foot  in  a  shaving-glass  which  he  removed 
from  a  nail  for  that  purpose,  took  up  his  knotted  stick,  and 
said  he  was  ready. 

The  Captain's  walk  was  more  complacent  than  usual  when 
they  got  out  into  the  street ;  but  this  \A'aker  supposed  to  be 
the  effect  of  the  ankle-jacks,  and  took  little  heed  of.  Before 
they  had  gone  very  far,  they  encountered  a  woman  selling 
flowers  ;  when  the  Captain  stopping  short,  as  if  struck  by  a 
happy  idea,  made  a  purchase  of  the  largest  bundle  in  her  bas- 
ket :  a  most  glorious  nosegay,  fan-shaped,  some  two  feet  and  a 
half  round,  and  composed  of  all  the  jolliest-looking  flowers  that 
blow. 

Armed  with  this  little  token  which  he  designed  for  Mr. 
Dombey,  Captain  Cuttle  walked  on  with  Walter  until  they 
reached  the  Instrument-maker's  door,  before  which  they  both 
paused. 


AMAZING  ARTFULNESS  OF  CAPTAIN  CUTTLE.      21 1 

*'  You're  going  in  ?  "  said  Walter. 

"  Yes  ; "  returned  the  Captain,  who  felt  that  Walter  must  be 
get  rid  of  before  he  proceeded  any  further,  and  that  he  had 
better  time  his  projected  visit  somewhat  later  in  the  day. 

"And  you  won't  forget  anything  ?  "  said  Walter. 

"No,"  returned  the  Captain. 

"  I'll  go  upon  my  walk  at  once,"  said  Walter,  "and  then  1 
shall  be  out  of  the  way,  Captain  Cuttle." 

"  Take  a  good  long  'un,  my  lad  !  "  replied  the  Captain,  call- 
ing after  him.  Walter  waved  his  hand  in  assent,  and  went  his 
way. 

His  way  was  nowhere  in  particular  ;  but  he  thought  he 
would  go  out  into  the  fields,  where  he  could  reflect  upon  the 
unknown  life  before  him,  and  resting  under  some  tree,  ponder 
quietly.  He  knew  no  better  fields  than  those  near  Hampstead 
and  no  better  means  of  getting  at  them  than  by  passing  Mr. 
Dombey's  house. 

It  was  as  stately  and  as  dark  as  ever,  when  he  went  by  and 
glanced  up  at  its  frowning  front.  The  blinds  were  all  pulled 
down,  but  the  upper  windows  stood  wide  open,  and  the  pleasant 
air  stirring  those  curtains  and  waving  them  to  and  fro,  was  the 
only  sign  of  animation  in  the  whole  exterior.  Walter  walked 
softly  as  he  passed,  and  was  glad  when  he  had  left  the  house  a 
door  or  two  behind. 

He  looked  back  then  ;  with  the  interest  he  had  always  felt 
for  the  place  since  the  adventure  of  the  lost  child,  years  ago  ; 
and  looked  especially  at  those  upper  windows.  While  he  was 
thus  engaged,  a  chariot  drove  to  the  door,  and  a  portly  gentle- 
man in  black,  with  a  heavy  watch-chain,  alighted,  and  went  in. 
V/hen  he  afterwards  remembered  this  gentleman  and^  his 
equipage  together,  Walter  had  no  doubt  he  was  a  physician  ; 
and  then  he  v/ondered  who  was  ill ;  but  the  discovery  did  not 
occur  to  him  until  he  had  walked  some  distance,  thinking  list- 
lessly of  other  things. 

Though  still,  of  what  the  house  had  suggested  to  him  ;  for 
Walter  pleased  himself  with  thinking  that  perhaps  the  time 
might  come,  when  the  beautiful  child  who  was  his  old  friend 
and  had  always  been  so  grateful  to  him  and  so  glad  to  see  him 
since,  might  interest  her  brother  in  his  behalf  and  influence  his 
fortunes  for  the  better.  He  liked  to  imagine  this — more,  at 
that  moment,  for  the  pleasure  of  imagining  her  continued  re- 
membrance of  him,  than  for  any  wordly  profit  he  might  gain  : 
but  another  and  more  sober  fancy  whispered  to  him,  that  if  he 
were  alive  then,  he  would  be  beyond  the  sea  and  forgotten  \  she 


9 1 2  DOMBE  Y  AND  SON. 

married,  rich,  proud,  happy.  There  was  no  more  reason  why  shi 
should  remember  him  with  any  interest  in  such  an  altered  state 
of  things,  than  any  plaything  she  ever  had.     No,  not  so  much. 

Yet  Walter  so  idealized  the  pretty  child  whom  he  had  found 
wandering  in  the  rough  streets,  and  so  identified  her  with  her 
innocent  gratitude  of  that  night  and  the  simplicity  and  truth  of 
its  expression,  that  he  blushed  for  himself  as  a  libeller  when  he 
argued  that  she  could  ever  grow  proud.  On  the  other  hand, 
his  meditations  were  of  that  fantastic  order  that  it  -9|g|^ 
hardly  less  libellous  in  him  to  imagine  her  grown  woman  :  to 
think  of  her  as  anything  but  the  same  artless,  gentle,  winning 
little  creature,  that  she  had  been  in  the  days  of  good  Mrs. 
Brown.  In  a  word,  Walter  found  out  that  to  reason  with  him- 
self about  Florence  at  all,  was  to  become  very  unreasonable 
indeed ;  and  that  he  could  do  no  better  than  preserve  her 
image  in  his  mind  as  something  precious,  unattainable,  un- 
changeable, and  indefinite — indefinite  in  all  but  its  power  of 
giving  him  pleasure,  and  restraining  him  like  an  angel's  hand 
from  anything  unworthy. 

It  was  a  long  stroll  in  the  fields  that  Walter  took  that  day, 
listening  to  the  birds,  and  the  Sunday  bells,  and  the  softened 
murmur  of  the  town — breathing  sweet  scents ;  glancing  some- 
times at  the  dim  horizon  beyond  which  his  voyage  and  his  place 
of  destination  lay  ;  then  looking  round  on  the  green  English 
grass  and  the  home  landscape.  But  he  hardly  once  thought, 
even  of  going  away,  distinctly  ;  and  seemed  to  put  off  reflection 
idly,  from  hour  to  hour,  and  from  minute  to  minute,  while  he 
yet  went  on  reflecting  all  the  time. 

Walter  had  left  the  fields  behind  him,  and  was  plodding 
homeward  in  the  same  abstracted  mood,  when  he  heard  a  shout 
from  a  man,  and  then  a  woman's  voice  calling  to  him  loudly  by 
name.  Turning  quickly  in  his  surprise,  he  saw  that  a  hackney- 
coach,  going  in  the  contrary  direction,  had  stopped  at  no  great 
distance,  that  the  coachman  was  looking  back  from  his  bo.x:  and 
making  signals  to  him  with  his  whip  ;  and  that  a  young  woman 
inside  was  leaning  out  of  the  window,  and  beckoning  with 
immense  energy.  Running  up  to  this  coach,  he  found  that  the 
young  woman  was  Miss  Nipper,  and  that  Miss  ^^'|^pe^  was  in 
such  a  flutter  as  to  be  almost  beside  herself. 

"  Staggs's  Gardens,  Mr.  Walter  !"  said  Miss  Nipper;  ""if 
you  please,  oh  do  i  " 

"  Eh  >  "  cried  Waltt.  ;  "  what  is  the  matter  ?  " 

"Oh,  Mr.  Walter,  Staggs's  Gardens,  if  you  please!"  said 
Susan. 


AMAZING  ARTFULNESS  OP  CAPTAIN  CUTTLE      213 

•'  There ! "  cried  the  coachnian,  appealing  to  Walter,  with  a 
sort  of  exulting  despair  ;  "  that's  the  way  the  young  lady's  been 
a  goin'  on  for  up'ards  of  a  mortal  hour,  and  me  continivally 
backing  out  of  no  thoroughfares,  where  she  7i>ouhi  drive  up. 
I've  had  a  many  fares  in  this  coach,  first  and  last,  but  never 
such  a  fare  as  her." 

"  Do  you  want  to  go  to  Staggs's  Gardens,  Susan  ?  "  inquired 
Walter. 

"Ah  !  she  wants  to  go  there  !  Where  is  it?  "  growled  the 
coachman. 

"  I  don't  know  where  it  is  ! "  exclaimed  Susan,  wildly.  "  Mr. 
Walter,  I  was  there  once  myself,  along  with  Miss  Floy  and  our 
poor  darling  Master  Paul,  on  the  very  day  when  you  found  Miss 
Floy  in  the  City,  for  we  lost  her  coming  home,  Mrs.  Richards 
and  me,  and  a  mad  bull,  and  Mrs.  Richards's  eldest,  and  though 
I  went  there  afterwards,  I  can't  remember  where  it  is,  I  think 
it's  sunk  into  the  ground.  Oh,  Mr.  Walter,  don't  desert  me, 
Staggs's  Gardens,  if  you  please  !  Miss  Floy's  darling — all  our 
darlings — little,  meek,  meek  Master  Paul !     Oh  Mr.  Walter  !  " 

"  Good  God  !  "  cried  Walter.     "  Is  he  very  ill  ?  " 

"The  pretty  flower!"  cried  Susan,  wringing  her  hands, 
"  has  took  the  fancy  that  he'd  like  to  see  his  old  nurse,  and 
I've  come  to  bring  her  to  his  bedside,  Mrs.  Staggs,  of  Polly 
Toodle's  Gardens,  some  one  pray  !  " 

Greatly  moved  by  what  he  heard,  and  catching  Susan's 
earnestness  immediately,  Walter,  now  that  he  understood  the 
nature  of  her  errand,  dashed  into  it  with  such  ardor  that  the 
coachman  had  enough  to  do  to  follow  closely  as  he  ran  before, 
inquiring  here  and  there  and  everywhere,  the  way  to  Staggs's 
Gardens. 

There  was  no  such  place  as  Staggs's  Gardens.  It  had 
vanished  from  the  earth.  Where  the  old  rotten  summer-houses 
once  had  stood,  palaces  now  reared  their  heads,  and  granite 
columns  of  gigantic  girth  opened  a  vista  to  the  railway  world 
beyond.  The  miserable  waste  ground,  where  the  refuse-matter 
had  been  heaped  of  yore,  was  swallowed  up  and  gone  ;  and  in 
its  frowsy  stead  were  tiers  of  warehouses,  crammed  with  rich 
goods  and  costly  merchandise.  The  old  by-streets  now 
swarmed  with  passengers  and  vehicles  of  every  kind  :  the  new 
streets  that  had  stopped  disheartened  in  the  mud  and  wagon- 
ruts,  formed  towns  within  themselves,  originating  wholesome 
comforts  and  conveniences  belonging  to  themselves,  and  never 
tried  nor  thought  of  until  they  sprung  into  existence.  Bridges 
that  had  led  to  nothing,  led  to  villas,  gardens,  churches  healthy 


J 1 4  DOM  BE  Y  AND  SOJ/ 

public  walks.  The  carcasses  of  houses,  and  beginnings  of  ne\« 
thoroughfares,  had  started  off  upon  the  line  at  steam's  own 
speed,  and  shot  away  into  the  country  in  a  monster  train. 

As  to  the  neighborhood  which  had  hesitated  to  acknowledge 
the  railroad  in  its  straggling  days,  that  had  grown  wise  and 
penitent,  as  any  Christian  might  in  such  a  case,  and  now 
boasted  of  its  powerful  and  prosperous  relation.  There  were 
railway  patterns  in  its  drapers'  shops,  and  railway  journals  in 
the  windows  of  its  newsmen.  There  were  railway  hotels,  cof- 
fee-houses, lodging-houses,  boarding-houses;  railway  plans, 
maps,  views,  wrappers,  bottles,  sandwich-boxes,  and  time- 
tables ;  railway  hackney-coach  and  cabstands  ;  railway  omni- 
buses, railway  streets  and  buildings,  railway  hangers-on  and 
parasites,  and  flatterers  out  of  all  calculation.  There  was  e\'en 
railway  time  observed  in  clocks,  as  if  the  sun  itself  had  given 
in.  Among  the  vanquished  was  the  master  chimney-sweeper, 
whilome  incredulous  at  Staggs's  Gardens,  who  now  lived  in  a 
stuccoed  house  three  stories  high,  and  gave  himself  out,  with 
golden  flourishes  upon  a  varnished  board,  as  contractor  for  the 
cleansing  of  railway  chimneys  by  machinery. 

To  and  from  the  heart  of  this  great  change,  all  day  and 
night,  throbbing  currents  rushed  and  returned  incessantly  like 
its  life's  blood.  Crowds  of  people  and  mountains  of  goods,  de- 
parting and  arriving  scores  upon  scores  of  times  in  every  four- 
and-twenty  hours,  produced  a  fermentation  in  the  place  that 
was  always  in  action.  The  very  houses  seemed  disposed  to 
pack  up  and  take  trips.  Wonderful  Members  of  Parliament, 
who,  little  more  than  twenty  years  before,  had  made  them- 
selves merry  with  the  wild  railroad  theories  of  engineers,  and 
given  them  the  liveliest  rubs  in  cross-e.xamination,  went  clown 
into  the  north  with  their  watches  in  their  hands,  and  sent  on 
messages  before  by  the  electric  telegraph,  to  say  that  they 
were  coming.  Night  and  day  the  conquering  engines  rumbled 
at  their  distant  work,  or,  advancing  smoothly  to  their  journey's 
end,  and  gliding  like  tame  dragons  into  the  allotted  corners 
grooved  out  to  the  inch  for  their  reception,  stood  bubbling  and 
trembling  there,  making  the  walls  quake,  as  if  they  were  dila- 
ting with  the  secret  knowledge  of  great  powers  yet  unsuspected 
in  them,  and  strong  purposes  not  yet  achieved. 

But  Staggs's  Gardens  had  been  cut  up  root  and  branch. 
Oh  woe  the  day  when  "  not  a  rood  of  English  ground  " — laid 
out  in  Staggs's  Gardens — is  secure  ! 

At  last,  after  much  fruitless  inquiry,  Walter,  followed  by 
the  coach  and  Susan,  found  a  man  who  had  once  resided  in 


AMAZING  ARTFULNESS  OF  CAPTA/N  CUTTLE.      21$ 

that  vanished  land,  and  who  was  no  other  than  the  mastet 
sweep  before  referred  to,  grown  stout,  and  knocking  a  double 
knock  at  his  own  door.  He  knowed  Toodle,  he  said,  well 
Belonged  to  the  Railroad,  didn't  he  ? 

"  Yes,  sir,  yes  !  "  cried  Susan  Nipper  from  the  coach  win- 
dow. 

Where  did  he  live  now  ?  hastily  inquired  Walter. 

He  lived  in  the  Company's  own  Buildings,  second  turning 
to  the  right,  down  the  yard,  cross  over,  and  take  the  second  on 
the  right  again.  It  was  number  eleven  ;  they  couldn't  mistake 
it ;  but  if  they  did,  they  had  only  to  ask  for  Toodle,  Engine 
Fireman,  and  any  one  would  show  them  which  was  his  house. 
At  this  unexpected  stroke  of  success,  Susan  Nipper  dis- 
mounted from  the  coach  with  all  speed,  took  Walter's  arm,  and 
set  off  at  a  breathless  pace  on  foot ;  leaving  the  coach  there  to 
await  their  return. 

"  Has  the  little  boy  been  long  ill,  Susan  ?  "  inquired  Wal- 
ter, as  they  hurried  on. 

"  Ailing  for  a  deal  of  time,  but  no  one  knew  how  much," 
said  Susan ;  adding  with  excessive  sharpness,  "  Oh,  them 
Blimbers  !  " 

"  Blimbers  ? "  echoed  Walter, 

"  I  couldn't  forgive  myself  at  such  a  time  as  this,  Mr. 
Walter,"  said  Susan,  "  and  when  there's  so  much  serious  dis- 
tress to  think  about,  if  I  rested  hard  on  any  one,  especially  on 
them  that  little  darling  Paul  speaks  well  of,  but  I  fnay  wish 
that  the  family  was  set  to  work  in  a  stony  soil  to  make  new 
roads,  and  that  Miss  Blimber  went  in  front,  and  had  the  pick- 
axe !  " 

Miss  Nipper  then  took  breath,  and  went  on  faster  than  be- 
fore, as  if  this  extraordinary  aspiration  had  relieved  her.  Wal- 
ter, who  had  by  this  time  no  breath  of  his  own  to  spare,  hurried 
along  without  asking  any  more  questions  ;  and  they  soon,  in 
their  impatience,  burst  in  at  a  little  door  and  came  into  a  clean 
parlor  full  of  children. 

"Where's  Mrs.  Richards!  "  exclaimed  Susan  Nipper,  look- 
ing round.  "  Oh  Mrs.  Richards,  Mrs.  Richards,  come  along 
with  me,  my  dear  creetur  !  " 

"  Why,  if  it  an't  Susan  !  "  cried  Polly,  rising  with  her  hon- 
est face  and  motherly  figure  from  among  the  group,  in  great 
surprise, 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Richards,  it's  me,"  said  Susan,  "  and  I  wish  it 
wasn't,  though  I  may  not  seem  to  flatter  when  I  say  so,  but 
little  Master  Paul  is  very  ill,  and  told  his  Pa  to-day  that  he 


2 1 6  DOMBE  Y  AND  SON. 

would  like  to  see  the  face  of  his  old  nurse,  and  him  and  Misj 
Floy  hope  you'll  come  along  with  me — and  Mr.  Walter,  Mrs. 
Richards — forgetting  what  is  past,  and  do  a  kindness  to  ths 
sweet  dear  that  is  withering  away.  Oh,  Mrs.  Richards,  wither- 
ing away  !  "  Susan  Nipper  crying,  Polly  shed  tears  to  see  her, 
and  to  hear  what  she  had  said ;  and  all  the  children  gathered 
round  (including  numbers  of  new  babies)  ;  and  Mr,  Toodle, 
who  had  just  come  home  from  Birmingham,  and  was  eating  his 
dinner  out  of  a  basin,  laid  down  his  knife  and  fork,  and  put  on 
his  wife's  bonnet  and  shawl  for  her,  which  were  hanging  up 
behind  the  door  ;  then  tapped  her  on  the  back  ;  and  said,  with 
more  fatherly  feeling  than  eloquence,  "  Polly  !  cut  away !  " 

So  they  got  back  to  the  coach,  long  before  the  coachman 
expected  them ;  and  Walter,  putting  Susan  and  Mrs.  Richards 
inside,  took  his  seat  on  the  box  himself  that  there  might  be  no 
more  mistakes,  and  deposited  them  safely  in  the  hall  of  Mr, 
Dombey's  house — where,  by  the  bye,  he  saw  a  mighty  nosegay 
lying,  which  reminded  him  of  the  one  Captain  Cuttle  had  pur- 
chased in  his  company  that  morning.  He  would  have  lin- 
gered to  know  more  of  the  young  invalid,  or  waited  any  length 
of  time  to  see  if  he  could  render  the  least  service  ;  but,  pain- 
fully sensible  that  such  conduct  would  be  looked  upon  by  Mr. 
Dombey  as  presumptuous  and  forward,  he  turned  slowly,  sadly, 
anxiously,  away. 

He  had  not  gone  five  minutes'  walk  from  the  door,  when  a 
man  came  running  after  him,  and  begged  him  to  return.  Wal- 
ter retraced  his  steps  as  quickly  as  he  could,  and  entered  the 
gloomy  house  with  a  sorrowful  foreboding. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

WHAT   THE    WAVES    WERE    ALWAYS    SAYING. 

Paul  had  never  risen  from  his  little  bed.  He  lay  there, 
listening  to  the  noises  in  the  street,  quite  tranquilly ;  not  car- 
ing much  how  the  tinie  went,  but  watching  it  and  watching 
everything  about  him  with  observing  eyes. 

When  the  sunbeams  struck  into  his  room  through  the 
rustling  blinds,  and  (juivered  on  the  opposite  wall  like  golden 
water,  he  knew  that  evening  was  coming  on,  and  that  the  sk^ 


m/A  T  THE  \VA  VES  WERE  AL  WA  VS  SA  VWC. 


2t7 


was  red  and  beautiful.  As  the  reflection  died  away,  and  a 
gloom  went  creeping  up  the  wall,  he  watched  it  deepen,  deepen, 
deepen,  into  night.  Then  he  thought  how  the  long  streets 
were  dotted  with  lamps,  and  how  the  peaceful  stars  were  shining 
overhead.  His  fancy  had  a  strange  tendency  to  wander  to  the 
river,  which  he  knew  was  flowing  through  the  great  city  ;  and 
now  he  thought  how  black  it  was,  and  how  deep  it  would  look, 
reflecting  the  hosts  of  stars — and  more  than  all,  how  steadily 
it  rolled  away  to  meet  the  sea. 

As  it  grew  later  in  the  night,  and  footsteps  in  the  street  be- 
came so  rare  that  he  could  hear  them  coming,  count  them  as 
they  paused,  and  lose  them  in  the  hollow  distance,  he  would 
lie  and  watch  the  many-colored  ring  about  the  candle,  and  wait 
patiently  for  day.  His  only  trouble  was,  the  swift  and  rapid 
river.  He  felt  forced,  sometimes,  to  try  to  stop  it — to  stem  it 
with  his  childish  hands — or  choke  its  way  with  sand — and  when 
ne  saw  it  coming  on,  resistless,  he  cried  out !  But  a  word  from 
Floience,  who  was  always  at  his  side,  restored  him  to  himself; 
and  leaning  his  poor  head  upon  her  breast,  he  told  Floy  of  his 
dream,  and  smiled. 

When  day  began  to  dawn  again,  he  watched  for  the  sun  ; 
and  when  its  cheerful  light  began  to  sparkle  in  the  room,  he 
pictured  to  himself — pictured  !  he  saw — the  high  church  towers 
rising  up  into  the  morning  sky,  the  town  reviving,  waking,  start- 
ing into  life  once  more,  the  river  glistening  as  it  rolled  (but 
rolling  fast  as  ever),  and  the  country  bright  with  dew.  Famil- 
iar sounds  and  cries  came  by  degrees  into  the  street  below ;  the 
servants  in  the  house  were  roused  and  busy  ;  faces  looked 
in  at  the  door,  and  voices  asked  his  attendants  softly  how  he 
was.  Paul  always  answered  for  himself,  "  I  am  better.  I  am 
a  great  deal  better,  thank  you  !     Tell  Papa  so  !  " 

By  little  and  little,  he  got  tired  of  the  bustle  of  the  day,  the 
noise  of  carriages  and  carts,  and  people  passing  and  re-passing ; 
and  would  fall  asleep  or  be  troubled  with  a  restless  and  uneasy 
sense  again — the  child  could  hardly  tell  whether  this  were  in 
his  sleeping  or  his  waking  moments — of  that  rushing  river. 
"Why,  will  it  never  stop,  Floy.?"  he  would  sometimes  ask  her. 
•'  It  is  bearing  me  away,  I  think  !  " 

But  Floy  could  always  soothe  and  re-assure  him  ;  and  it 
was  his  daily  delight  to  make  her  lay  her  head  down  on  his 
pillow,  and  take  some  rest. 

"  You  are  always  watching  me,  Floy.  Let  me  watch  you, 
now  !  "  They  would  prop  him  up  with  cushions  in  a  corner  of 
his  bed,  and  there  he  would  recline  the  while  she  iay  beside 
10 


2 1 S  DOM  BE  y  Am)  so,^. 

him  :  bending  forward  oftentimes  to  kiss  her,  and  whispering 
to  those  who  were  near  that  she  was  tired,  and  how  she  had 
sat  up  so  many  nights  beside  him. 

I'hus  the  flush  of  the  day,  in  its  heat  and  light,  would  gradu- 
ally decline  ;  and  again  the  golden  water  would  be  dancing  on 
the  wall. 

He  was  visited  by  as  many  as  three  grave  doctors — they 
used  to  assemble  down  stairs,  and  come  up  together — and  the 
room  was  so  quiet,  and  Paul  was  so  observant  of  them  (though 
he  never  asked  of  anybody  what  they  said),  that  he  even  knew 
the  difference  in  the  sound  of  their  watches.  But  his  interest 
centered  in  Sir  Parker  Peps,  who  always  took  his  seat  on  the 
side  of  the  bed.  For  Paul  had  heard  them  say  long  ago,  that 
that  gentleman  had  been  with  his  mama  when  she  clasped 
Florence  in  her  arms,  and  died.  And  he  could  not  forget  it, 
now.     He  liked  him  for  it.     He  was  not  afraid. 

The  i^eople  round  him  changed  as  unaccountably  as  on  that 
first  night  at  Dr.  Blimber's — except  Florence  ;  Florence  never 
changed — and  what  had  been  Sir  Parker  Peps,  was  now  his 
father,  sitting  with  his  head  upon  his  hand.  Old  Mrs.  Pipchin 
dozing  in  an  easy  chair,  often  changed  to  Miss  Tox,  or  his 
aunt ;  and  Paul  was  quite  content  to  shut  his  eyes  again,  and 
see  what  happened  next  without  emotion.  But  this  figure  with 
its  head  upon  its  hand  returned  so  often,  and  remained  so 
long,  and  sat  so  still  and  solemn,  never  speaking,  never  being 
spoken  to,  and  rarely  lifting  up  its  face,  that  Paul  began  to 
wonder  languidly,  if  it  were  real  :  and  in  the  night-time  saw  it 
sitting  there,  with  fear. 

"Floy  !  "  he  said.     "  What  is  that  ? " 

"  Where,  dearest  ?  " 

"  There  !  at  the  bottom  of  the  bed." 

"  There's  nothing  there,  except  Papa  !  " 

The  figure  lifted  up  its  head,  and  rose,  and  coming  to  the 
bedside,  said  :  "  My  own  boy  !  Don't  you  know  me  1  " 

Paul  looked  it  in  tlie  face,  and  thought,  was  this  his  fatlier  ? 
But  the  face  so  altered  to  his  thinking,  thrilled  while  he  gazed, 
as  if  it  were  in  pain  ;  and  before  he  could  reach  out  both 
his  hands  to  take  it  between  them,  and  draw  it  towards  him, 
the  figure  turned  away  quickly  from  the  little  bed,  and  went 
out  at  the  door. 

Paul  looked  at  Florence  with  a  fluttering  heart,  but  he  knew 
what  she  was  going  to  say,  and  slopped  lier  with  his  face 
against  her  lips.  'Phe  next  time  he  observed  the  figure  sitting 
at  the  bottom  of  the  bed,  he  called  to  it. 


U^//A  r  THE  IVA  VES  WERE  AL  WA  YS  SA  Y/MG.      2  n^ 

"  Don't  be  so  sorry  for  me,  dear  Papa  !  Indeed  I  am  quite 
happy !  " 

His  father  coming  and  bending  down  to  him — which  he  did 
quickly,  and  without  first  pausing  by  the  bedside— Paul  held 
him  round  the  neck,  and  repeated  those  words  to  him  several 
times,  and  very  earnestly  ;  and  Paul  never  saw  him  in  his  room 
again  at  any  time,  whether  it  were  day  or  night,  but  he  called 
out,  "  Don't  be  so  sorry  for  me  !  Indeed  I  am  quite  happy  !  " 
This  was  the  beginning  of  his  always  saying  in  the  morning 
that  he  was  a  great  deal  better,  and  that  they  were  to  tell  his 
father  so. 

How  many  times  the  golden  water  danced  upon  the  wall ; 
how  many  nights  the  dark  river  rolled  towards  the  sea  in  spite 
of  him  ;  Paul  never  counted,  never  sought  to  know.  If  their 
kindness  or  his  sense  of  it,  could  have  increased,  they  were 
more  kind,  and  he  more  grateful  every  day  ;  but  whether  they 
wei-e  many  days  or  few,  appeared  of  little  moment  now,  to  the 
gentle  boy. 

One  aight  he  had  been  thinking  of  his  mother,  and  her  pic- 
ture in  the  drawing-room  down  stairs,  and  thought  she  must 
have  loved  sweet  Florence  better  than  his  father  did,  to  have 
held  her  in  her  arms  when  she  felt  that  she  was  dying — for 
even  he,  her  brother,  who  had  such  dear  love  for  her,  could 
have  no  greater  wish  than  that.  The  train  of  thought  sug- 
gested to  him  to  inquire  if  he  had  ever  seen  his  mother ;  for  he 
could  not  remember  whether  they  had  told  him,  yes  or  no,  the 
river  running  very  fast,  and  confusing  his  mind. 

"  Floy,  did  I  ever  see  mama  ?  " 

"  No,  darling,  why  ?  " 

"  Did  I  ever  see  any  kind  face,  like  mama's,  looking  at  me 
when  I  was  a  baby,  Floy  ?  " 

He  asked,  incredulously,  as  if  he  had  some  vision  of  a  face 
before  him. 

"  Oh  yes,  dear !  " 

•'  Whose,  Floy  ? " 

"  Your  old  nurse's.     Often." 

"  And  where  is  my  old  nurse  ? "  said  Paul.  "  Is  she  dead 
too  ?     Floy,  are  we  all  dead,  except  you  .''  " 

There  was  a  hurry  in  the  room,  for  an  instant — longer,  per- 
haps ;  but  it  seemed  no  more — then  all  was  still  again  ;  and 
Florence,  with  her  face  quite  colorless,  but  smiling,  held  his 
head  upon  her  arm.     Her  arm  trembled  very  much. 

"  Show  me  that  old  nurse,  Floy,  if  you  please  !  " 

"  She  is  not  here,  darling.     She  shall  come  to-morrow." 


2 2 o  DoMiiE  y  Amj  sou. 

"  Tliank  you,  Floy  !  " 

Paul  closed  his  eyes  with  those  words,  and  fell  asleep. 
When  he  awoke,  the  sun  was  high,  and  the  broad  day  was  clear 
and  warm.  He  lay  a  little,  looking  at  the  windows,  which 
were  open,  and  the  curtains  rustling  in  the  air,  and  waving  to 
and  fro  :  then  he  said,  "  Floy,  is  it  to-morrow  ?     Is  she  come  ?  " 

Some  one  seemed  to  go  in  quest  of  her.  Perhaps  it  was 
Susan.  Paul  thought  he  heard  her  telling  him  when  he  had 
closed  his  eyes  again,  that  she  would  soon  be  back  ;  but  he  did 
not  open  them  to  see.  She  kept  her  word — perhaps  she  had 
never  been  away — but  the  next  thing  that  happened  was  a 
noise  of  footsteps  on  the  stairs,  and  then  Paul  woke — woke 
mind  and  body — and  sat  upright  in  his  bed.  He  saw  them  now 
about  him.  There  was  no  gray  mist  before  them,  as  there  had 
been  sometimes  in  the  night.  He  knew  them  every  one,  and 
called  t)iem  by  their  names. 

"  And  who  is  this  ?  Is  this  my  old  nurse  ?  "  said  the  child, 
i«garding  with  a  radiant  smile,  a  figure  coming  in. 

Yes,  yes.  No  other  stranger  would  have  shed  those  tears 
at  sight  of  him,  and  called  him  her  dear  boy,  her  pretty  boy, 
her  own  poor  blighted  child.  No  other  woman  would  have 
stooped  down  by  his  bed,  and  taken  up  his  wasted  hand,  and 
put  it  to  her  lips  and  breast,  as  one  who  had  some  right  to 
fondle  it.  No  other  woman  would  have  so  forgotten  everybody 
there  but  him  and  Floy,  and  been  so  full  of  tenderness  and 
pity. 

"  Floy  !  this  is  a  kind  good  face  !  "  said  Paul.  "  I  am  glad 
to  see  it  again.     Don't  go  away  old  nurse  !     Stay  here." 

His  senses  were  all  quickened,  and  he  heard  a  name  he 
knew. 

"  Who  was  that,  who  said  '  Walter  ? '  "  he  asked,  looking 
round.  "  Some  one  said  Walter.  Is  he  here  .-•  I  should  like 
to  see  him  very  much." 

Nobody  replied  directly  ;  but  his  father  soon  said  to  Susan, 
"  Call  him  back,  then  :  let  him  come  up  !  "  After  a  short 
pause  of  expectation,  during  which  he  looked  with  smiling 
interest  and  wonder,  on  his  nurse,  and  saw  that  she  had  not 
forgotten  Floy,  Walter  was  brought  into  the  room.  His  open 
face  and  manner,  and  his  cheerful  eyes,  had  always  made  him 
a  favorite  with  Paul  ;  and  when  Paul  saw  him,  he  stretched 
out  his  hand,  and  said  "  Good-by  !  " 

"Good-by,  my  child!  "  cried  Mrs.  Pipchin,  hurrying  to  his 
bed's  head.     "  Not  good-by?  " 

For  an  instant,  Paul  looked  at  her  with  the  wistful  face  with 


IV//A  T  THE  WA  VES  WERE  AL  WA  YS  SA  YING.       22 1 

which  he  had  so  often  gazed  upon  her  in  his  corner  by  the  fire. 
"  Ah  Yes,"  he  said  placidly,  "  good-by !  Walter  dear,  good-by !  " 
— turning  his  head  to  where  he  stood,  and  putting  out  his  hand 
again.     "  Where  is  Papa  ?  " 

He  felt  his  father's  breath  upon  his  check,  before  the  words 
had  parted  from  his  lips. 

"  Remember  Walter,  dear  Papa,"  he  whispered,  looking  in 
his  face,  "  Remember  Walter.  I  was  fond  of  Walter  !  "  The 
feeble  hand  waved  in  the  air,  as  if  it  cried  "  good-by  1  "  to 
Walter  once  again. 

"  Now  lay  me  down,"  he  said,  "  and  Floy,  come  close  to 
me,  and  let  me  see  you  !  " 

Sister  and  brother  wound  their  arms  around  each  other,  and 
the  golden  light  came  streaming  in,  and  fell  upon  them,  locked 
together. 

"  How  fast  the  river  runs,  between  its  green  banks  and  the 
rushes,  Floy !  But  't's  very  near  the  sea.  I  hear  the  waves  ! 
They  always  said  so  !  " 

Presently  he  told  her  that  the  motion  of  the  boat  upon  the 
stream  was  lulling  him  to  rest.  How  green  the  banks  were 
now,  how  bright  the  flowers  growing  on  them,  and  how  tall  the 
rushes  !  Now  the  boat  was  out  at  sea,  but  gliding  smoothly  on. 
And  now  there  was  a  shore  before  him.  Who  stood  on  the 
bank  !— 

He  put  his  hands  together,  as  he  had  been  used  to  do  at 
his  prayers.  He  did  not  remove  his  arms  to  do  it ;  but  they 
saw  him  fold  them  so,  behind  her  neck. 

"  Mama  is  like  you,  Floy.  1  know  her  by  the  face  !  But 
tell  them  that  the  print  upon  the  stairs  at  school  is  not  divine 
enough.     The  light  about  the  head  is  shining  on  me  as  I  go  !  " 

The  golden  ripple  on  the  wall  came  back  again,  and  nothing 
else  stirred  in  the  room.  The  old,  old  fashion  !  The  fashion 
that  came  in  with  our  first  garments,  and  will  last  unchanged 
until  our  race  has  run  its  course,  and  the  wide  firmament  is 
rolled  up  like  a  scroll.     The  old,  old  fashion — Death  ! 

Oh  thank  God,  all  who  see  it,  for  that  older  fashion  yet,  of 
Immortality  !  And  look  upon  us,  angels  of  young  children, 
with  regards  not  quite  estranged,  when  the  swift  river  bears  us 
to  th?  ocean  | 


noMBEY  AA^D  SON. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 


CAPTAIN     CUTTLE     DOES     A    LITTLE     BUSINESS     FOR     THE     YOUN< 
PEOPLE. 

Captain  Cuttle,  in  the  exercise  of  that  surprising  talent 
for  deep-laid  and  unfathomable  scheming,  with  which  (as  is  not 
unusual  in  men  of  transparent  simplicity)  he  sincerely  believed 
himself  to  be  endowed  by  nature,  had  gone  to  Mr.  Dombey's 
house  on  the  eventful  Sunday,  winking  all  the  way  as  a  vent  for 
his  superfluous  sagacity,  and  had  presented  himself  in  the  full 
lustre  of  the  ankle-jacks  before  the  eyes  of  Towlinson.  Hearing 
from  that  individual,  to  his  great  concern,  of  the  impending 
calamity,  Captain  Cuttle,  in  his  delicac}',  sheered  off  again  con- 
founded ;  merely  handing  in  the  nosegay  as  a  small  mark  of  his 
solicitude,  and  leaving  his  respectful  compliments  for  the  family 
in  general,  which  he  accompanied  with  an  expression  of  his 
hope  that  they  would  lay  their  heads  well  to  the  wind  under 
existing  circumstances,  and  a  friendly  intimation  that  he  would 
"  look  up  again  "  to-morrow. 

The  Captain's  compliments  were  never  heard  of  any  more. 
The  Captain's  nosegay,  after  lying  in  the  hall  all  night,  was 
swept  into  the  dust-bin  next  morning  ;  and  the  Captain's  sly 
arrangement,  involved  in  one  catastrophe  with  greater  hopes 
and  loftier  designs,  was  crushed  to  pieces.  So,  when  an 
avalanche  bears  down  a  mountain-forest,  twigs  and  bushes 
suffer  with  the  trees,  and  all  perish  together. 

When  Walter  returned  home  on  the  Sunday  evening  from 
his  long  walk,  and  its  memorable  close,  he  was  too  much 
occupied  at  first  by  the  tidings  he  had  to  give  them,  and  by  the 
emotions  naturally  awakened  in  his  breast  by  the  scene 
through  which  he  had  passed,  to  observe  either  that  his  uncle 
was  evidently  unacquainted  with  the  intelligence  the  Captain 
had  undertaken  to  impart,  or  that  the  Captain  made  signals 
with  his  hook,  warning  him  to  avoid  the  subject.  Not  that  the 
Captain's  signals  were  calculated  to  ha\e  proved  very  compre- 
hensible, however  attentively  observed  ;  for,  like  those  Chinese 
sages  who  are  said  in  their  conferences  to  write  certain  learned 
words  in  the  air  that  are  wholly  impossible  of  pronunciation, 
the  Captain  made  such  waves  and  flourishes  as  nobody  without 


CAPTAIN  CUTTLE  DOES  A  LITTLE  BUSINESS.      223 

a  previous  knowledge  of  his  mystery,  would  have  been  at  all 
likely  to  understand. 

Captain  Cuttle,  however,  becoming  cognizant  of  what  had 
happened,  relinquished  these  attempts,  as  he  perceived  the 
slender  chance  that  nov/  existed  of  his  being  able  to  obtain  a 
little  easy  chat  with  Mr.  Dombey  before  the  period  of  Walter's 
departure.  But  in  admitting  to  himself,  with  a  disappointed 
and  crestfallen  countenance,  that  Sol  Gills  must  be  told,  and 
that  Walter  must  go — taking  the  case  for  the  present  as  he 
found  it,  and  not  having  it  enlightened  or  improved  beforehand 
by  the  knowing  management  of  a  friend — the  Captain  still  felt 
jn  unabated  confidence  that  he,  Ned  Cuttle,  was  the  man  for 
Mr.  Dombey  ;  and  that,  to  ^et  Walter's  fortunes  quite  square, 
nothing  was  v/anted  but  that  they  two  should  come  together. 
For  the  Captain  never  could  forget  how  well  he  and  Mr. 
Dombey  had  got  on  at  Brighton ;  with  what  nicety  each  of 
them  had  put  in  a  word  when  it  was  wanted  ;  how  exactly  they 
had  taken  one  another's  measure ;  nor  how  Ned  Cuttle  had 
pointed  out  that  resource  in  the  first  extremity,  and  had  brought 
the  interview  to  the  desired  termination.  On  all  these  grounds 
the  Captain  soothed  himself  with  thinking  that  though  Ned 
Cuttle  was  forced  by  the  pressure  of  events  to  "stand  by" 
almost  useless  for  the  present,  Ned  would  fetch  up  with  a  wet 
sail  in  good  time,  and  carry  all  before  him. 

Under  the  influence  of  this  good-natured  delusion.  Captain 
Cuttle  even  went  so  far  as  to  revolve  in  his  own  bosom,  while 
he  sat  looking  at  Walter  and  listening  with  a  tear  on  his  shirt- 
collar  to  what  he  related,  whether  it  might  not  be  at  once  gen- 
teel and  politic  to  give  Mr.  Dombey  a  verbal  invitation,  when- 
ever they  should  meet,  to  come  and  cut  his  mutton  in  Prig 
Place  on  some  day  of  his  own  naming,  and  enter  on  the  ques- 
tion of  his  young  friend's  prospects  over  a  social  glass.  But 
ihe  uncertain  temper  of  Mrs.  MacStinger,  and  the  possibility  of 
her  setting  up  her  rest  in  the  passage  during  such  an  entertain- 
ment, and  there  delivering  some  homily  of  an  uncomplimentary 
nature,  operated  as  a  check  on  the  Captain's  hospitable  thoughts, 
and  rendered  him  timid  of  giving  them  encouragement. 

One  fact  was  quite  clear  to'^the  Captain,  as  Walter,  sitting 
thoughtfully  over  his  untasted  dinner,  dwelt  on  all  that  had 
happened  ;  namely,  that  however  Walter's  modesty  might  stand 
in  the  way  of  his  perceiving  it  himself,  he  was,  as  one  might 
say,  a  member  of  Mr.  Dombey's  family.  He  had  been,  in  his 
own  person,  connected  with  the  incident  he  so  pathetically  de- 
scribed ;  he  had  been  by  name  remembered  and  commended  io 


«24 


DOMBEY  A. YD  SO  AT. 


close  assoclntion  with  it;  and  his  fortunes  must  have  a  partio 
ular  interest  in  his  employer's  eyes.  If  the  Captain  had  any 
lurking  doubt  whatever  of  his  own  concKisions,  he  had  not  the 
least  doubt  that  tliey  were  good  conclusions  for  the  peace  of 
mind  of  the  Instrument-maker.  Therefore  he  availed  himself 
of  so  favorable  a  moment  for  breaking  the  West  Indian  Intelli' 
gence  to  his  old  friend,  as  a  piece  of  extraordinary  preferment  ; 
declaring  that  for  his  part  he  would  freely  give  a  hundred  thou- 
sand pounds  (if  he  had  it)  for  Walter's  gain  in  the  long-run, 
and  that  he  had  no  doubt  such  an  investment  would  yield  a 
handsome  premium. 

Solomon  Gills  was  at  first  stunned  by  the  communication, 
which  fell  upon  the  little  back-parlor  like  a  thunderbolt,  and 
tore  up  the  earth  savagely.  But  the  Captain  flashed  such 
golden  prospects  before  his  dim  sight :  hinted  so  mysteriously 
at  Whittingtonian  consequences :  laid  such  emphasis  on  what 
Walter  had  just  now  told  them  :  and  appealed  to  it  so  confidently 
as  a  corroboration  of  his  predictions,  and  a  great  advance 
towards  the  realization  of  the  romantic  legend  of  Lovely  Peg : 
that  he  bewildered  the  old  man.  Walter,  for  his  part,  feigned 
to  be  so  full  of  hope  and  ardor,  and  so  sure  of  coming  home 
again  soon,  and  backed  up  the  Captain  with  such  expressive 
shakings  of  his  head  and  rubbings  of  his  hands,  that  Solomon, 
looking  first  at  him  and  then  at  Captain  Cuttle,  began  to  think 
he  ought  to  be  transported  with  joy. 

"  But  I'm  behind  the  time,  you  understand,"  he  observed  in 
apology,  passing  his  hand  nervously  down  the  whole  row  of 
bright  buttons  on  his  coat,  and  then  up  again,  as  if  they  were 
beads  and  he  were  telling  them  twice  over  :  "  and  I  would  rather 
have  my  dear  boy  here.  It's  an  old-fashioned  notion,  I  dare 
say.  He  was  always  fond  of  the  sea.  He's  " — and  he  looked 
wistfully  at  Walter — "he's  glad,  to  go." 

"Uncle  Sol!"  cried  Walter,  quickly,  "if  you  say  that  I 
wofit^o.  No,  Captain  Cuttle,  1  won't.  If  my  uncle  thinks  I 
could  be  glad  to  leave  him,  though  I  was  going  to  be  made 
Governor  of  all  the  Islands  in  the  West  Indies,  that's  enough. 
I'm  a  fixture." 

"  Wal'r,  my  lad,"  said  the  Captain.  "Steady!  Sol  (lilis, 
take  an  observation  of  your  nevy." 

Following  with  his  eyes  the  majestic  action  of  the  Captain's 
hook,  the  old  man  looked  at  Walter. 

"  Here's  a  certain  craft,"  said  the  Captain  with  a  magnificent 
sense  of  the  allegory  into  which  he  was  soaring,  "  a-going  ta 
put  out  on  a  certain  voyage.    \\'hat  name  is  wrote  upon  that  cratl 


CAPTAh\'  CUTTLE  T>0£S  A  LITTLE  BUSINESS,      n^ 

indelibly?  Is  it  the  Gay?  or,"  said  the  Captain  raising  his 
voice  as  much  as  to  say,  observe  the  point  of  this,  "  is  it  The 
Gills?" 

•*  Ned,"  said  the  old  man  drawing  Walter  to  his  side,  and 
taking  his  arm  tenderly  through  his,  "  I  know,  I  know.  Of 
course  I  know  that  Wally  considers  me  more  than  himself 
always.  That's  in  my  mind.  When  I  say  he  is  glad  to  go,  I 
mean  I  hope  he  is.  Eh  ?  look  you,  Ned,  and  you  too,  Wally, 
my  dear,  this  is  new  and  unexpected  to  me;  and  I'm  afraid 
of  my  being  behind  the  time,  and  poor,  is  at  the  bottom  of  it. 
It  is  really  good  fortune  for  him,  do  you  tell  me,  now  ?  "  said 
the  old  man,  looking  anxiously  from  one  to  the  other.  "  Really 
and  truly  ?  Is  it  ?  I  can  reconcile  myself  to  almost  anything 
that  advances  Wally,  but  I  won't  have  Wally  putting  himself  at 
any  disadvantage  for  me,  or  keeping  anything  from  me.  You, 
Ned  Cuttle  !  "  said  the  old  man  fastening  on  the  Captain  to  the 
manifest  confusion  of  that  diplomatist ;  "  are  you  dealing  plainly 
by  your  old  friend  ?  Speak  out,  Ned  Cuttle.  Is  there  any- 
thing behind  ?  Ought  he  to  go  ?  How  do  you  know  it  first 
and  why  ?  " 

As  it  was  a  contest  of  affection  and  self-denial,  Walter 
struck  in  with  infinite  effect,  to  the  Captain's  relief ;  and  be- 
tween them  they  tolerably  reconciled  old  Sol  Gills,  by  contin- 
ued talking,  to  the  project ;  or  rather  so  confused  him,  that 
nothing,  not  even  the  pain  of  separation,  was  distincdy  clear  to 
his  mind. 

He  had  not  much  time  to  balance  the  matter ;  for  on  the 
very  next  day,  Walter  received  from  Mr.  Carker  the  Manager, 
the  necessary  credentials  for  his  passage  and  outfit,  together 
with  the  information  that  the  Son  and  Heir  would  sail  in  a  fort- 
night, or  within  a  day  or  two  afterwards  at  latest.  In  the  hurry 
of  preparation  :  which  Walter  purposely  enhanced  as  much  as 
possible  :  the  old  man  lost  what  little  self-possession  he  ever  had ; 
and  so  the  time  of  departure  drew  on  rapidly. 

The  Captain,  who  did  not  fail  to  make  himself  acquainted 
with  all  that  passed,  through  inquiries  of  Walter  from  day  to 
day,  found  the  time  still  tending  on  towards  his  going  away, 
without  any  occasion  offering  itself,  or  seeming  likely  to  offer  it- 
self, for  a  better  understanding  of  his  position.  It  was  after 
much  consideration  of  this  fact,  and  much  pondering  over  such 
an  unfortunate  combination  of  circumstances,  that  a  bright 
idea  occurred  to  the  Captain.  Suppose  he  made  a  call  on  Mr. 
Carker,  and  tried  to  find  out  from  hirn  how  the  land  really  lay! 

Captain  Cuttle  liked  this  idea  very  much.     It  came  upon 


226  DOMBEY  AND  SON". 

him  in  a  moment  of  inspiration,  as  he  was  smoking  an  early 
pipe  in  Brig  Place  after  breakfast ;  and  it  was  worthy  of  the 
tobacco.  It  would  quiet  his  conscience,  which  was  an  honest 
one,  and  was  made  a  little  uneasy  by  what  Walter  had  confided 
to  him,  and  what  Sol  Gills  had  said  ;  and  it  would  be  a  deep, 
shrewd  act  of  friendship.  He  would  sound  Mr.  Carker  care- 
fully, and  say  much  or  little,  just  as  he  read  that  gentleman's 
character,  and  discovered  that  they  got  on  well  together  or  the 
reverse. 

Accordingly  without  the  fear  of  Walter  before  his  eyes  (who 
he  knew  was  at  home  packing),  Captain  Cuttle  again  assumed 
his  ankle-jacks  and  mourning  brooch,  and  issued  forth  on  this 
second  expedition.  He  purchased  no  propitiatory  nose-gay 
on  the  present  occasion,  as  he  was  going  to  a  place  of  business ; 
but  he  put  a  small  sunflower  in  his  button-hole  to  give  himself 
an  agreeable  relish  of  the  country ;  and  with  this  and  the 
knobby  stick,  and  the  glazed  hat,  bore  down  upon  the  offices 
of  Dombey  and  Son. 

After  taking  a  glass  of  warm  rum-and-water  at  a  tavern 
close  by,  to  collect  his  thoughts,  the  Captain  made  a  rush 
down  the  court,  lest  its  good  effects  should  evaporate,  and 
appeared  suddenly  to  Mr.  Perch. 

"  Matey,"  said  the  Captain,  in  persuasive  accents,  "  One 
of  your  Governors  is  named  Carker." 

Mr.  Perch  admitted  it ;  but  gave  him  to  understand,  as  in 
ofiicial  duty  bound,  that  all  his  Governors  were  engaged,  and 
never  expected  to  be  disengaged  any  more. 

"  Look'ee  here,  mate,"  said  the  Captain  in  his  ear:  "my 
name's  Cap'en  Cuttle." 

The  Captain  would  have  hooked  Perch  gently  to  him,  but 
Mr.  Perch  eluded  the  attempt ;  not  so  much  in  design,  as  in 
starting  at  the  sudden  thought  that  such  a  weapon  unexpectedly 
exhibited  to  Mrs.  Perch  might,  in  her  then  condition,  be  de- 
structive to  that  lady's  hopes. 

"  If  you'll  be  so  good  as  just  report  Cap'en  Cuttle  here, 
when  you  get  a  chance,"  said  the  Captain,  "I'll  wait." 

Saying  which,  the  Captain  took  his  seat  on  Mr.  Perch's 
bracket,  and  drawing  out  his  handkerchief  from  the  crown  of 
the  glazed  hat,  which  he  jambed  between  lus  knees  (without 
injury  to  its  shape,  for  nothing  human  could  bend  it\  rubbed 
his  head  well  all  ox'cr,  and  appeared  refreshed.  He  subse- 
quently arranged  his  hair  with  liis  hook,  and  sat  looking  round 
the  office,  contemplating  the  clerks  with  a  serene  respect. 

The  Captain's  equanimity  was  so  impenetrable,  and  he  was 


CAPTAIN  CUTTLE  DOES  A  LITTLE  tWSIKESS.     2^7 

altogether  so  mysterious  a  being,  that  Perch  the  messenger  was 
daunted. 

"  What  name  was  it  you  said  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Perch,  bending 
down  over  him  as  he  sat  on  the  bracket. 

"  Cap'en,"  in  a  deep  hoarse  whisper. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Perch,  keeping  time  with  his  head. 

"  Cuttle." 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Mr.  Perch,  in  the  same  tone,  for  he  caught  it, 
and  could't  help  it',  the  Captain,  in  his  diplomacy,  was  so  im- 
pressive. "I'll  see  if  he's  disengaged  now.  I  don't  know. 
Perhaps  he  may  be  for  a  minute." 

"Ay,  ay,  my  lad,  I  won't  detain  him  longer  than  a  minute," 
said  the  Captain,  nodding  with  all  the  weighty  importance  that 
he  felt  within  him.  Perch,  soon  returning,  said,  "  Will  Captain 
Cuttle  walk  this  way  1  " 

Mr.  Carker  the  manager,  standing  on  the  hearth-rug  before 
the  empty  fire-place,  which  was  ornamented  with  a  castellated 
sheet  of  brown  paper,  looked  at  the  Captain  as  he  came  in, 
with  no  very  special  encouragement. 

"  Mr.  Carker  ?  "  said  Captain  Cuttle. 

"  I  believe  so,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  showing  all  his  teeth. 

The  Captain  liked  his  answering  with  a  smile ;  it  looked 
pleasant.  "  You  see,"  began  the  Captain,  rolling  his  eyes 
slowly  round  the  little  room,  and  taking  in  as  much  of  it  as  his 
shirt  collar  permitted  ;  "  I'm  a  seafaring  man  myself,  Mr. 
Carker,  and  Wal'r,  as  is  on  your  books  here,  is  a'most  a  son  of 
mine." 

"  Walter  Gay  ?  "  said  Mr.  Carker,  showing  all  his  teeth 
again. 

"  Wal'r  Gay  it  is,"  replied  the  Captain,  "  right !  "  The 
Captain's  manner  expressed  a  warm  approval  of  Mr.  Carker's 
quickness  of  perception.  "  I'm  a  intimate  friend  of  his  and 
his  uncle's.  Perhaps,"  said  the  Captain,  "  you  may  have  heard 
your  head  Governor  mention  my  name  ? — Captain  Cuttle." 

"  No  !  "  said  Mr.  Carker,  with  a  still  wider  demonstration 
than  before. 

"  Well,"  resumed  the  Captain,  "  I've  the  pleasure  of  his 
acquaintance.  I  waited  upon  him  down  on  the  Sussex  coast 
there,  with  my  young  friend  Wal'r,  when — in  short,  when  there 
was  a  little  accommodation  wanted."  The  Captain  nodded  his 
head  in  a  manner  that  was  at  once  comfortable,  easy,  and  ex- 
pressive.    "  You  remember,  I  dare  say  ?  " 

"  I  think,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  "  I  had  the  honor  of  arranging 
the  business." 


^28  DOMBEY  AND  SOK 

"  To  be  sure  !  "  returned  the  Captain.  "  Right  again  \  yo« 
had.     Now  I've  took  the  liberty  of  coming  here—" 

"Won't  you  sit  down  ?"  said  Mr.  Carker,  smiling. 

"  Thank'ee,"  returned  the  Captain,  availing  himself  of  the 
offer.  "  A  man  does  get  more  way  upon  himself,  perhaps,  in 
his  conversation,  when  he  sits  down,  Won't  you  take  a  cheer 
yourself  ? " 

"  No  thank  you,"  said  the  manager,  standing,  perhaps  from 
the  force  of  winter  habit,  with  his  back  against  the  chimney- 
piece,  and  looking  down  upon  the  Captain  with  an  eye  in  every 
tooth  and  gum.  "  You  have  taken  the  liberty,  you  were  going 
to  say — though  it's  none — " 

"Thank'ee  kindly,  my  lad,"  returned  the  Captain:  "of 
coming  here,  on  account  of  my  friend  Wal'r.  Sol  Gills,  his 
uncle,  is  a  man  of  science,  and  in  science  he  may  be  considered 
a  clipper ;  but  he  ain't  what  I  should  altogether  call  a  able 
seamen — not  a  man  of  practice.  Wal'r  is  as  trim  a  lad  as  ever 
stepped  ;  but  he's  a  little  down  by  the  head  in  one  respect, 
and  that  is  modesty.  Now  what  I  should  wish  to  put  to  you," 
said  the  Captain,  lowering  his  voice,  and  speaking  in  a  kind  of 
confidential  growl,  "  in  a  friendly  way,  entirely  between  you 
and  me,  and  for  my  own  private  reckoning,  'till  your  head 
Governor  has  wore  round  a  bit,  and  I  can  come  along-side  of 
him,  is  this. — Is  everything  right  and  comfortable  here,  and  is 
Wal'r  out'ard  bound  with  a  pretty  fair  wind  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  think  now.  Captain  Cuttle,"  returned  Carker, 
gathering  up  his  skirts  and  settling  himself  in  his  position. 
"  You  are  a  practical  man ;  what  do  you  think  ? " 

The  acuteness  and  significance  of  the  Captain's  eye  as  he 
cocked  it  in  reply,  no  words  short  of  those  unutterable  Chinese 
words  before  referred  to  could  describe. 

"  Come  !  "  said  the  Captain,  unspeakably  encouraged,  "what 
do  you  say  ?     Am  I  right  or  wrong  ?  " 

So  much  had  the  Captain  e.xpressed  in  his  eye,  emboldeiied 
and  incited  by  Mr,  Carker's  smiling  urbanity,  that  he  felt  him- 
self in  as  fair  a  condition  to  put  the  question,  as  if  he  had  ex- 
pressed his  sentiments  with  the  utmost  elaboration. 

"  Right,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  "  I  have  no  doubt." 

"  Out'ard  bound  with  fair  weather,  then,  I  say,"  cried  Cap- 
tain Cuttle. 

Mr.  Carker  smiled  assent. 

"  Wind  right  astarn,  and  plenty  of  it,"  pursued  the  Captain. 

Mr.  Carker  smiled  assent  again. 

*'  Ay,   ay ! "    said    Captain    Cuttle,    greatly    relieved    and 


CAPTAIN  CUTTLE  DOES  A  LITTLE  BUSINESS.      2 


29 


pleased.     "  I  know'd   how  she   headed,  well  enough  ;  I  told 
Wal'r  so.     Thank'ee,  thank'ee." 

"Gay  has  brilliant  prospects,"  observed  Mr.  Carker, 
stretching  his  mouth  wider  yet :  "  all  the  world  before  him." 

"  All  the  world  and  his  wife  too,  as  the  saying  is,"  returned 
the  delighted  Captain. 

At  the  word  "  wife,"  (which  he  had  uttered  without  design), 
the  Captain  stopped,  cocked  his  eye  again,  and  putting  the 
glazed  hat  on  the  top  of  the  knobby  stick,  gave  it  a  twirl,  and 
looked  sideways  at  his  always  smiling  friend. 

"  I'd  bet  a  gill  of  old  Jamaica,"  said  the  Captain,  eyeing 
him  attentively,  that  I  know  what  you're  smiling  at." 

Mr.  Carker  took  his  cue,  and  smiled  the  more. 

"  It  goes  no  farther?  "  said  the  Captain,  making  a  poke  at 
the-  door  with  the  knobby  stick  to  assure  himself  that  it  was 
shut. 

"  Not  an  inch,"  said  Mr.  Carker. 

"  You're  a  thinking  of  a  capital  F  perhaps  ?  "  said  the  Cap- 
tain. 

Mr.  Carker  didn't  deny  it. 

"Anything  about  a  L,"  said  the  Captain,  "  or  a  O  ?  " 

Mr.  Carker  still  smiled. 

"  Am  I  right  again  ?  "  inquired  the  Captain  in  a  whisper, 
with  the  scarlet  circle  on  his  forehead  swelling  in  his  triumph- 
ant joy. 

Mr.  Carker,  in  reply,  still  smiling,  and  now  nodding  assent. 
Captain  Cuttle  rose  and  squeezed  him  by  the  hand,  assuring 
him  warmly,  that  they  were  on  the  same  tack,  and  that  as  for 
him  (Cuttle)  he  had  laid  his  course  that  way  all  along.  "  He 
know'd  her  first,"  said  the  Captain,  with  all  the  secrecy  and 
gravity  that  the  subject  demanded,  "in  an  uncommon  manner 
—you  remember  his  finding  her  in  the  street  when  she  was 
a'most  a  babby — he  has  liked  her  ever  since,  and  she  him,  as 
much  as  two  such  youngsters  can.  We've  always  said,  Sol 
Gills  and  me,  that  they  was  cut  out  for  each  other." 

A  cat,  or  a  monkey,  or  a  hyena,  or  a  death's-head,  could 
not  have  shown  the  Captain  more  teeth  at  one  time,  than  Mr. 
Carker  showed  him  at  this  period  of  their  interview. 

"  There's  a  general  in-draught  that  way,"  observed  the 
'happy  Captain.  "  Wind  and  water  sets  in  that  direction,  you 
see.     Look  at  his  being  present  t'other  day !  " 

"  Most  favorable  to  his  hopes,"  said  Mr.  Carker. 

"  Look  at  his  being  towed  along  in  the  wake  of  that  day! 
pursued  the  Captain,     "  Why  what  can  cut  hjm  adrift  now? " 


83© 


DOME  FY  AXD  SOiV. 


*'  Nothing,"  replied  Mr.  Carker. 

"  You're  right  again,"  returned  the  Captain,  giving  his  hand 
another  squeeze.  "  Nothing  it  is.  So !  steady !  There's  a 
son  gone  :  pretty  little  creetur.     Ain't  there  ?  " 

"  Yes,  there's  a  son  gone,"  said  the  acquiescent  Carker. 

"  Pass  the  word,  and  there's  another  ready  for  you,"  quoth 
the  Captain.  "  Nevy  of  a  scientific  uncle !  Nevy  of  Sol  Gills  ! 
Wal'r  !  Wal'r,  as  is  already  in  your  business  !  And  " — said  the 
Captain,  rising  gradually  to  a  quotation  he  was  preparing  for  a 
final  burst,  "  who — comes  from  Sol  Gills's  daily,  to  your  busi- 
ness, and  your  buzzums." 

The  Captain's  complacency  as  he  gently  jogged  Mr.  Carker 
with  his  elbow,  on  concluding  each  of  the  foregoing  short  sen- 
tences, could  be  surpassed  by  nothing  but  the  exultation  with 
which  he  fell  back  and  eyed  him  when  he  had  finished  this 
brilliant  display  of  eloquence  and  sagacity;  his  great  blue 
waistcoat  heaving  with  the  throes  of  such  a  masterpiece,  and 
his  nose  in  a  state  of  violent  inflammation  from  the  same  cause. 

"Am  I  right?"  said  the  Captain. 

"  Captain  Cuttle,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  bending  down  at  the 
knees,  for  a  moment,  in  an  odd  manner,  as  if  he  were  falling 
together  to  hug  the  whole  of  himself  at  once,  "  your  views  in 
reference  to  Walter  Gay  are  thoroughly  and  accurately  right. 
I  understand  that  we  speak  together  in  confidence." 

"  Honor  !  "  interposed  the  Captain.     "  Not  a  word." 

"  To  him  or  any  one  ?  "  pursued  the  Manager. 

Captain  Cuttle  frowned  and  shook  his  head. 

"  But  merely  for  your  own  satisfaction  and  guidance — and 
guidance,  of  course,"  repeated  Mr.  Carker,  "  with  a  view  to 
your  future  proceedings." 

"Thank'ee  kindly,  I  am  sure,'  said  the  Captain,  listening 
with  great  attention. 

"  I  have  no  hesitation  in  saying,  that's  the  fact.  You  have 
hit  the  probabilities  exactly." 

"  And  with  regard  to  your  head  Governor,"  said  the  Cap- 
tain. "  why  an  interview  had  better  come  about  nat'ral  between 
us.     There's  time  enough." 

Mr.  Carker,  with  his  mouth  from  ear  to  ear,  repeated, 
"Time  enough."  Not  articulating  the  words,  but  bowing  his 
head  affably,  and  forming  them  with  his  tongue  and  lips. 

"  And  as  1  know — it's  what  I  always  said — that  Wal'r's  in 
a  way  to  make  his  fortune,"  said  the  Captain. 

"To  make  his  fortune  Mr.  Carker  repeated,  in  the  same 
dumb  manner. 


tAPTAIN  CUTTLE  DOES  A  LITTLE  BUSINESS,     s^jj 

"  And  as  Wal'r's  going  on  this  little  voj'age  is,  as  I  may 
Bay,  in  his  clay's  work,  and  a  part  of  his  general  expectations 
hrre,"  said  the  Captain. 

"  Of  his  general  expectations  here,"  assented  Mr.  Carker, 
dumbly  as  before. 

"  Why,  so  long  as  I  know  that,"  pursued  the  Captain, 
"  there's  no  hurry,  and  my  mind's  at  ease." 

Mr.  Carker  still  blandly  assenting  in  the  same  voiceless 
manner,  Captain  Cuttle  was  strongly  confirmed  in  his  opinion 
that  he  was  one  of  the  most  agreeable  men  he  had  ever  met, 
and  that  even  Mr.  Dombey  might  improve  himself  on  such  a 
model.  With  great  heartiness,  therefore,  the  Captain  once 
again  extended  his  enormous  hand  (not  unlike  an  old  block  in 
color),  and  gave  him  a  grip  that  left  upon  his  smoother  flesh  a 
proof  impression  of  the  chinks  and  crevices  with  which  the 
Captain's  palm  was  liberally  tattooed. 

"  Farewell ! "  said  the  Captain.  "  I  an't  a  man  of  many 
words,  but  I  take  it  very  kind  of  you  to  be  so  friendly,  and 
above-board.  You'll  excuse  me  if  I've  been  at  all  intruding, 
will  you  ?  "  said  the  Captain. 

"  Not  at  all,"  returned  the  other. 

"  Thank'ee.  My  berth  an't  very  roomy,"  said  the  Captain, 
turning  back  again,  "  but  it's  tolerably  snug ;  and  if  you  was  to 
find  yourself  near  Brig  Place,  number  nine,  at  any  time — will 
you  make  a  note  of  it  ? — and  would  come  up  stairs,  without 
minding  what  was  said  by  the  person  at  the  door,  I  should  be 
proud  to  see  you." 

With  that  hospitable  invitation,  the  Captain  said  "  Good- 
day  !  "  and  walked  out  and  shut  the  door ;  leaving  Mr.  Carker 
still  reclining  against  the  chimney-piece.  In  whose  sly  look 
and  watchful  manner  ;  in  whose  false  mouth,  stretched  but  not 
laughing  ;  in  whose  spotless  cravat  and  very  whiskers  ;  even  in 
whose  silent  passing  of  his  soft  hand  over  his  white  linen  and 
his  smooth  face;  there  was  something  desperately  cat-like. 

The  unconscious  Captain  walked  out  in  a  state  of  self-glori- 
fication that  imparted  quite  a  new  cut  to  the  broad  blue  suit. 
"  Stand  by,  Ned ! "  said  the  Captain  to  himself.  "  You've 
done  a  little  business  for  the  youngsters  to-day,  my  lad  !  " 

In  his  exultation,  and  in  his  familiarity,  joresent  and  pros- 
pective, with  the  House,  the  Captain,  when  he  reached  the 
outer  office,  could  not  refrain  from  rallying  Mr.  Perch  a  little, 
and  asking  him  whether  he  thought  everybody  was  still  en- 
gaged. But  not  to  be  bitter  on  a  man  who  had  done  his  duty, 
the  Captain  whispered  in  his  ear,  that  if  he  felt  disposed  for  a 


43^ 


JyOMBEY  AND  so^r. 


glass  of  rum-ancl-water,  and  would  follow,  he  would  be  happj 
to  bestow  the  same  upon  him. 

Before  leaving  the  premises,  the  Captain,  somewhat  to  the 
astonishment  of  tlie  clerks,  looked  round  from  a  central  point 
of  view,  and  took  a  general  survey  of  the  office  as  part  and 
parcel  of  a  project  in  which  his  young  friend  was  nearly  inter- 
ested. The  strong-room  excited  his  especial  admiration  ;  but, 
that  he  might  not  appear  too  particular,  he  limited  himself  to 
an  approving  glance,  and,  with  a  graceful  recognition  or  the 
clerks  as  a  body,  that  was  full  of  politeness  and  patronage, 
passed  out  into  the  court.  Being  promptly  joined  by  Mr. 
Perch,  he  conveyed  that  gentleman  to  the  tavern,  and  fulfilled 
his  pledge — hastily,  for  Perch's  time  was  precious. 

"  I'll  give  you  for  a  toast,"  said  the  Captain,  "Wal'r  !  " 

"Who?"  submitted  Mr,  Perch. 

"Wal'r!  "  repeated  the  Captain,  in  a  voice  of  thunder. 

Mr.  Perch,  who  seemed  to  remember  having  heard  in  in- 
fancy that  there  was  once  a  poet  of  that  name,  made  no  ob- 
jection ;  but  he  was  much  astonished  at  the  Captain's  coming 
into  the  City  to  propose  a  poet  ;  indeed,  if  he  had  proposed  to 
put  a  poet's  statue  up — say  Shakespeare's  for  example — in  a 
civic  thoroughfare,  he  could  hardly  have  done  a  greater  out- 
rage to  Mr.  Perch's  experience.  On  the  whole,  he  was  such  a 
mysterious  and  incomprehensible  character,  that  Mr.  Perch 
decided  not  to  mention  him  to  Mrs.  Perch  at  all,  in  case  of 
giving  rise  to  any  disagreeable  consequences. 

Mysterious  and  incomprehensible,  the  Captain,  with  that 
lively  sense  upon  him  of  having  done  a  little  business  for  the 
youngsters,  remained  all  day,  even  to  his  most  intimate  friends  ; 
and  Init  that  Walter  attributed  his  winks  and  grins,  and  other 
sucli  ijantomimic  reliefs  of  himself,  to  his  satisfaction  in  the 
success  of  their  itmocent  deception  upon  old  Sol  Gills,  he 
would  assuredly  have  betrayed  himself  before  night.  As  it  was, 
however,  he  kept  his  own  secret  ;  and  went  home  late  from  the 
instrument-maker's  house,  wearing  the  glazed  hat  so  much  on 
one  side,  and  carrying  such  a  beaming  expression  in  his  eyes, 
that  Mrs.  MacSlinger  (who  might  have  been  brought  up  at 
Doctor  Blimber's,  she  was  such  a  Roman  matron)  fortified  her- 
self, at  tlie  first  glimpse  of  him,  behind  the  open  street  door, 
and  refused  to  come  out  to  the  contemplation  of  her  blessed 
infants,  until  he  was  securely  lodged  in  his  own  room 


FATHER  AND  DAUGHTER,  233 


CHAPTER   XVIII. 


FATHER  AND  DAUGHTER. 


There  is  a  hush  through  Mr.  Dombey's  house.  Servants 
gliding  up  and  down  stairs  rustle  but  make  no  sound  of  foot- 
steps. They  talk  together  constantly,  and  sit  long  at  meals, 
making  much  of  their  meat  and  drink,  and  enjoying  themselves 
after  a  grim  unholy  fashion.  Mrs.  Wickani,  with  her  eyes  suf- 
fused with  tears,  relates  melancholy  anecdotes  ;  and  tells  them 
how  she  always  said  at  Mrs.  Pipchin's  that  it  would  be  so,  and 
takes  more  table-ale  than  usual,  and  is  very  sorry  but  sociable. 
Cook's  state  of  mind  is  similar.  She  promises  a  little  fry  for 
supper  and  struggles  about  equally  against  her  feelings  and 
the  onions.  Towlinson  begins  to  think  there's  a  fate  in  it,  and 
wants  to  know  if  anybody  can  tell  him  of  any  good  that  ever 
came  of  living,  in  a  corner  .house.  It  seems  to  all  of  them  as 
having  happened  a  long  time  ago  ;  though  yet  the  child  lies, 
calm  and  beautiful,  upon  his  little  bed. 

After  dark  there  come  some  visitors — noiseless  visitors,  with 
shoes  of  felt — who  have  been  there  before ;  and  with  them 
comes  that  bed  of  rest  which  is  so  strange  a  one  for  infant 
sleepers.  All  this  time,  the  bereaved  father  has  not  been  seen 
even  by  his  attendant ;  for  he  sits  in  an  inner  corner  of  his 
own  dark  room  when  any  one  is  there,  and  never  seems  to 
move  at  other  times,  except  to  pace  it  to  and  fro.  But  in  the 
morning  it  is  whispered  among  the  household  that  he  was  heard 
to  go  up  stairs  in  the  dead  night,  and  that  he  stayed  there — in 
the  room — until  the  sun  was  shining. 

At  the  offices  in  the  City,  the  ground-glass  windows  are 
made  more  dim  by  shutters  ;  and  while  the  lighted  lamps  upon 
the  desks  are  half  extinguished  by  the  day  that  wanders  in,  the 
day  is  half  extinguished  by  the  lamps,  and  an  unusual  gloom 
prevails.  There  is  not  much  business  done.  The  clerks  are 
indisposed  to  work ;  and  they  make  assignations  to  eat  chops 
in  the  afternoon,  and  go  up  the  river.  Perch,  the  messenger, 
stays  long  upon  his  errands  ;  and  finds  himself  in  bars  of  public- 
houses,  invited  thither  by  friends,  and  holding  forth  on  the 
uncertainty  of  human  affairs.  He  goes  home  to  Ball's  Pond 
earlier  in  the  evening  than  usual,  and  treats  Mrs.  Perch  to  a 


,,i^  DOMBF.Y  AND  SON. 

veal  cutlet  and  Scotcli  ale.  Mr.  Carker  the  manager  treats  ni 
one  ;  neither  is  he  treated  ;  but  alone  in  his  own  room  he  shows 
his  teeth  all  day  ;  and  it  would  seem  that  there  is  something 
gone  from  Mr.  Carker's  path — some  obstacle  removed — which 
clears  his  way  before  him. 

Now  the  rosy  children  living  opposite  to  Mr.  Dombey's 
house,  peep  from  their  nursery  windows  down  into  the  street  j 
for  there  are  four  black  horses  at  his  door,  with  feathers  on 
their  heads ;  and  feathers  tremble  on  the  carriage  that  they 
draw  \  and  these,  and  an  array  of  men  with  scarves  and  staves, 
attract  a  crowd.  The  juggler  who  was  going  to  twirl  the  basin, 
puts  his  loose  coat  on  again  over  his  fine  dress  ;  and  his  trudg- 
ing wife,  one-sided  with  her  heavy  baby  in  her  arms,  loiters  to 
see  the  company  come  out.  But  closer  to  her  dingy  breast  she 
presses  her  baby,  when  the  burden  that  is  so  easily  carried  is 
borne  forth  j  and  the  youngest  of  the  rosy  children  at  the  high 
window  opposite,  needs  no  restraining  hand  to  check  her  in  her 
glee,  when,  pointing  with  her  dimpled  finger,  she  looks  into  her 
nurse's  face,  and  asks  "  What's  that !  " 

And  now,  among  the  knot  of  servants  dressed  in  mourning, 
and  the  weeping  women,  Mr.  Dombey  passes  through  the  hall 
to  the  other  carriage  that  is  waiting  to  receive  him.  He  is  not 
-'  brought  down,"  these  observers  think,  by  sorrow  and  distress 
of  mind.  His  walk  is  as  erect,  his  bearing  is  as  stiff  as  ever  it 
has  been.  He  hides  his  face  behind  no  handkerchief,  and 
looks  before  him.  But  that  his  face  is  something  sunk  and 
rigid,  and  is  pale,  it  bears  the  same  expression  as  of  old.  He 
takes  his  place  within  the  carriage,  and  three  other  gentlemen 
follow.  Then  the  grand  funeral  moves  slowly  down  the  street. 
The  feathers  are  yet  nodding  in  the  distance,  when  the  juggler 
has  the  basin  spinning  on  a  cane,  and  has  the  same  crowd  to 
admire  it.  But  the  juggler's  wife  is  less  alert  than  usual  with 
the  money-box,  for  a  child's  burial  has  set  her  thinking  that 
perhaps  the  baby  underneath  her  shabby  shawl  may  not  grow 
up  to  be  a  man,  and  wear  a  sky-blue  fillet  round  his  head,  and 
salmon-colored  worsted  drawers,  and  tumble  in  the  mud. 

The  feathers  wind  their  gloomy  way  along  the  streets,  and 
come  within  the  sound  of  a  church  bell.  In  this  same  church, 
the  pretty  boy  received  all  that  will  soon  be  left  of  him  on  earth 
— a  name.  All  of  him  that  is  dead,  they  lay  there,  near  the 
perishable  substance  of  his  mother.  It  is  we'll.  Their  ashes 
lie  where  Florence  i,ji  her  walks — oh  lonely,  lonely  walks  ! — may 
»)ass  them  any  day. 

The  service  over^  and  the  clergyman  withdrawn,  Mr.  Dom- 


FATHER  AND  DAUGHTER.  23S 

bey  looks  round,  demanding  in  a  low  voice,  whether  the  person 
who  has  been  requested  to  attend  to  receive  instructions  tor 
the  tablet,  is  there  ? 

Some  one  comes  forward,  and  says  "  Yes." 

Mr.  Dombey  intimates  where  he  would  have  it  placed  ;  and 
shows  him,  with  his  hand  upon  the  wall,  the  shape  and  size ; 
and  how  it  is  to  follow  the  memorial  to  the  mother.  Then, 
with  his  pencil,  he  writes  out  the  inscription,  and  gives  it  to 
him  :  adding,  "  I  wish  to  have  it  done  at  once." 

"  It  shall  be  done  immediately,  sir." 

"  There  is  really  nothing  to  inscribe  but  name  and  age,  you 
see." 

The  man  bows,  glancing  at  the  paper,  but  appears  to 
hesitate.  Mr.  Dombey  not  observing  his  hesitation,  turns  away, 
and  leads  towards  the  porch. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir  ;  "  a  touch  falls  gently  on  his  mourn- 
ino-  cloak  ;  "  but  as  you  wish  it  done  immediately,  and  it  may 
be  put  in  hand  when  I  get  back " 

"  Well  ? " 

"  Will  you  be  so  good  as  to  read  it  over  again  ?  I  think 
there's  a  mistake." 

"  Where  ?  " 

The  statuary  gives  him  back  the  paper,  and  points  out,  with 
his  pocket  rule,  the  words,  "  beloved  and  only  child." 

"  It  should  be  '  son,'  I  think,  sir  1 " 

"  You  are  right.     Of  course.     Make  the  correction." 

The  father,  with  a  hastier  step,  pursues  his  way  to  the  coach. 
When  the  other  three,  who  follow  closely,  take  their  seats,  his 
face  is  hidden  for  the  first  time — shaded  by  his  cloak.  Nor  do 
they  see  it  any  more  that  day.  He  alights  first,  and  passes 
immediately  into  his  own  room.  The  other  mourners  (who  are 
only  Mr.  Chick  and  two  of  the  medical  attendants)  proceed  up 
stairs  to  the  drawing-room,  to  be  received  by  Mrs  Chick  and 
Miss  Tox.  And  what  the  face  is,  in  the  shut-up  chamber  un- 
derneath :  or  what  the  thoughts  are :  what  the  heart  is,  what 
the  contest  or  the  suffering  :  no  one  knows. 

The  chief  thing  that  they  know  below  stairs,  in  the  kitchen, 
is  that  "it  seems  like  Sunday."  They  can  hardly  persuade 
themselves  but  that  there  is  something  unbecoming,  if  not 
wicked  in  the  conduct  of  the  people  out  of  doors,  who  pursue 
their  ordinary  occupations,  and  wear  their  every-day  attire.  It 
is  quite  a  novelty  to  have  the  blinds  up,  and  the  shutters  open : 
and  they  make  themselves  dismally  comfortable  over  bottles  of 
wine,  which  are  freely  broached  as  on  a  festival.     They  are 


236  DOM  HEY  AND  SON. 

much  inclined  to  moralize.  Mr.  Towlinson  proposes  with  a 
sigh,  "  Amendment  to  us  all  !  "  for  which,  as  Cook  says  with 
another  sigh,  "There's  room  enough,  God  knows."  In  the 
evening,  Mrs.  Chick  and  Miss  Tox  take  to  needle-work  again. 
In  the  evening  also,  Mr.  Towlinson  goes  out  to  take  the  air, 
accompanied  by  the  house-maid,  who  has  not  yet  tried  her 
mourning  bonnet.  They  are  very  tender  to  each  other  at  dusky 
street-corners,  and  Towlinson  has  visions  of  leading  an  altered 
and  blameless  existence  as  a  serious  green-grocer  in  Oxford 
Market. 

There  is  sounder  sleep  and  deeper  rest  in  Mr.  Dombey's 
house  to-night,  than  there  has  been  for  many  nights.  The 
morning  sun  awakens  the  old  household,  settled  down  once 
more  in  their  old  ways.  The  rosy  children  opposite  run  past 
with  hoops.  There  is  a  splendid  wedding  in  the  church.  The 
juggler's  wife  is  active  with  the  money-box  in  another  quarter 
of  the  town.  The  mason  sings  and  whistles  as  he  chips  out 
p-A-u-L  in  the  marble  slab  before  him. 

And  can  it  be  that  in  a  world  so  full  and  busy,  the  loss  of 
one  weak  creature  makes  a  void  in  any  heart,  so  wide  and  deep 
that  nothing  but  tlie  width  and  depth  of  vast  eternity  can  till  it 
up !  Florence,  in  her  innocent  affliction,  might  have  answered 
"  Oh  my  brothei,  oh  my  dearly  loved  and  loving  brother  !  Only 
friend  and  companion  of  my  slighted  childhood  !  Could  any 
less  idea  shed  the  light  already  dawning  on  your  early  grave, 
or  give  birth  to  the  softened  sorrow  that  is  springing  into  life 
beneath  this  rain  of  tears  !  " 

"  My  dear  child,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  who  held  it  as  a  duty 
incumbent  on  her,  to  improve  the  occasion,  "  when  you  are  as 
old  as  I  am — " 

"  Which  will  be  the  prime  of  life,"  observed  Miss  Tox. 

"You  will  then,"  pursued  Mrs.  Chick,  gently  squeezing 
Miss  Tox's  hand  in  acknowledgment  of  her  friendly  remark, 
"  you  will  then  know  that  all  grief  is  unavailing,  and  that  it  is 
our  duty  to  submit." 

"  I  will  try,  dear  aunt.  I  do  try,"  answered  Florence,  sob- 
bing. 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  "  because,  my  love, 
as  our  dear  Miss  Tox — of  whose  sound  sense  and  excellent 
judgment,  there  cannot  possibly  be  two  opinions — " 

"  My  dear  Louisa,  I  shall  really  be  proud,  soon,"  said  Miss 
Tox. 

— "will  tell  you,  and  confirm  by  her  experience,"  pursued 
Mrs.  Chick,  "  we  are  called  upon  on  all  occasions  to  make  a\i 


IfATHER  A^D  DAtJGHrEk. 


45? 


effort.  It  is  required  of  us.  If  any — my  clear,"  turning  to 
Miss  Tox,  "  I  want  a  word.     Mis — mis — " 

"  Demeanor  ?  "  suggested  Miss  Tox. 

"  No,  no,  no,"  said  Mrs.  Chick.  "  How  can  you  !  Good- 
ness me,  it's  on  the  end  of  my  tongue.     Mis — " 

"  Placed  affection  ?  "  suggested  Miss  Tox,  timidly. 

"  Good  gracious,  Lucretia  !  "  returned  Mrs.  Chick.  "  How 
very  monstrous !  Misanthrope,  is  the  word  I  want.  The 
idea!  Misplaced  affection  1  I  say,  if  any  misanthrope  were 
to  put,  in  my  presence,  the  question  '  Why  were  we  born  ? '  I 
should  reply,  '  To  make  an  effort.'  " 

"  Very  good  indeed,"  said  Miss  Tox,  much  impressed  by 
the  originality  of  the  sentiment,     "  Very  good." 

"  Unhappily,"  pursued  Mrs.  Chick,  "  we  have  a  warning 
under  our  own  eyes.  We  have  but  too  much  reason  to  suppose, 
my  dear  child,  that  if  an  effort  had  been  made  in  time,  in  this 
family,  a  train  of  the  most  trying  and  distressing  circumstances 
might  have  been  avoided.  Nothing  shall  ever  persuade  me," 
observed  the  good  matron,  with  a  resolute  air,  "  but  that  if  that 
effort  had  been  made  by  poor  dear  Fanny,  the  poor  dear  dar- 
ling child  would  at  least  have  had  a  stronger  constitution." 

Mrs.  Chick  abandoned  herself  to  her  feelings  for  half  a  mo- 
ment ;  but,  as  a  practical  illustration  of  her  doctrine,  brought 
lierself  up  short  in  the  middle  of  a  sob,  and  went  on  again, 

"  Therefore,  Florence,  pray  let  us  see  that  you  have  some 
strength  of  mind,  and  do  not  selfishly  aggravate  the  distress  in 
which  your  poor  Papa  is  plunged." 

"  Dear  aunt !  "  said  Florence,  kneeling  quickly  down  before 
her,  that  she  might  the  better  and  more  earnestly  look  into  her 
face,  "  Tell  me  more  about  Papa.  Pray  tell  me  about  him ! 
Is  he  quite  heart-broken  ?  " 

Miss  Tox  was  of  a  tender  nature,  and  there  was  something 
in  this  appeal  that  moved  her  very  much.  Whether  she  saw  it 
it  a  succession,  on  the  part  of  the  neglected  child,  to  the  affec- 
tionate concern  so  often  expressed  by  her  dead  brother — or  a 
love  that  sought  to  twine  itself  about  the  heart  that  had  loved 
him,  and  that  could  not  bear  to  be  shut  out  from  sympathy 
with  such  a  sorrow,  in  such  sad  community  of  love  and  grief — 
or  whether  she  only  recognized  the  earnest  and  devoted  spirit, 
which,  although  discarded  and  repulsed,  was  wrung  with  ten- 
derness long  unreturned,  and  in  the  waste  and  solitude  of  this 
bereavement  cried  to  him  to  seek  a  comfort  in  it,  and  to  give 
some,  by  some  small  response — whatever  may  have  been  her 
understanding  of  it,  it  moved  Miss  Tox,     For  the  moment,  she 


238  DOMBEY  ANl)  ^6M. 

forgot  the  majesty  of  Mrs.  Chick,  and,  patting  Florence  hastily 
on  the  cheek,  turned  aside  and  suffered  the  tears  to  gush  from 
her  eyes,  without  waiting  for  a  lead  from  that  wise  matron. 

Mrs.  Chick  herself  lost,  for  a  moment,  the  presence  of  mind 
on  which  she  so  much  prided  herself ;  and  remained  mute, 
looking  on  the  beautiful  young  face  that  had  so  long,  sosteadil) 
and  patiently,  been  turned  towards  the  little  bed.  But  recover- 
ing her  voice — which  was  synonymous  with  her  presence  of 
mind,  indeed  they  were  one  and  the  same  thing — she  replied 
with  dignity  : 

"  Florence,  my  dear  child,  your  poor  Papa  is  peculiar  at 
times  ;  and  to  question  me  about  him,  is  to  question  me  upon 
a  subject  which  I  really  do  not  pretend  to  understand.  I  be- 
lieve I  have  as  much  influence  with  your  Papa  as  anybody  has. 
Still,  all  I  can  say  is,  that  he  has  said  very  little  to  me;  and 
that  I  have  only  seen  him  one  or  twice  for  a  minute  at  a  time, 
and  indeed  have  hardly  seen  him  then,  for  his  room  has  been 
dark.  I  have  said  to  your  Papa,  '  Paul  ! ' — that  is  the  exact 
expression  I  used — '  Paul  !  why  do  you  not  take  something 
stimulating.'''  Your  Papa's  reply  has  always  been,  '  Louisa, 
have  the  goodness  to  leave  me.  I  want  nothing.  1  am  better 
by  myself.'  If  I  was  to  be  put  upon  my  oath  to-morrow,  Lucre- 
tia,  before  a  magistrate,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  "I  have  no  doubt  I 
could  venture  to  swear  to  those  identical  words." 

Miss  Tox  expressed  her  admiration  by  saying,  "  My  Louisa 
is  ever  methodical !  " 

"  In  short,  Florence,"  resumed  her  aunt,  literally  nothing 
has  passed  between  your  poor  Papa  and  myself,  until  to-day : 
when  I  mentioned  to  your  Papa  that  Sir  Barnet  and  Lady  Skettles 
had  written  exceedingly  kind  notes — our  sweet  boy  !  Lady 
Skettles  loved  him  like  a — where's  my  pocket  handkerchief  !  " 

Miss  Tox  produced  one. 

"  Exceedingly  kind  notes,  proposing  that  you  should  visit 
them  for  change  of  scene.  Mentioning  to  your  Papa  that  I 
thought  Miss  Tox  and  myself  might  now  go  home  (in  which  he 
quite  agreed),  I  inquired  if  he  had  any  objection  to  your 
accepting  this  invitation.  He  said,  '  No,  Louisa,  not  the 
least ! '  " 

Florence  raised  her  tearful  eyes. 

"At  the  same  time,  if  you  would  prefer  staying  here,  Flor- 
ence, to  paying  this  \isit  at  present,  or  to  going  home  with 
me — " 

"  I  should  much  prefer  it,  aunt,"  was  the  faint  rejoinder. 

"Why  then,  child,"  said  Mrs.   Chick,   "you  can.     If's  a 


f'ArnER  AiVI:  iyAUGHTRk.  239 

Straftge  choice,  I  must  say.  But  you  always  were  strange.  Any- 
bod);  else  at  youi  time  of  life,  and  after  what  has  passed — my 
deal  Miss  Tox,  I  have  lost  my  pocket  handkerchief  again— 
would  be  glad  to  leave  here,  one  would  suppose." 

"  I  should  not  like  to  feel,"  said  Florence,  "  as  if  the  house 
was  avoided.  I  should  not  like  to  think  that  the — his — the 
rooms  up  stairs  were  quite  empty  and  drear)-,  aunt.  I  would 
rather  stay  here,  for  the  present.  Oh  my  brother  !  oh  my 
brother  ! " 

It  was  a  natural  emotion,  not  to  be  suppressed  ;  and  it  would 
make  way  even  between  the  fingers  of  the  hands  with  which  she 
covered  up  her  face.  The  over-charged  and  heavy-laden  breast 
must  sometimes  have  that  vent,  or  the  poor  wounded  solitary 
heart  within  it  would  have  fluttered  like  a  bird  with  broken 
wings,  and  sunk  down  in  the  dust. 

"  Well,  child  !  "  said  Mrs.  Chick,  after  a  pause.  "  I  wouldn't 
on  any  account  say  anything  unkind  to  you,  and  that  I'm  sure 
you  know.  You  will  remain  here,  then,  and  do  exactly  as  you 
like.  No  one  will  interfere  with  you,  Florence,  or  wish  to  inter- 
fere with  you,  I  m  sure." 

Florence  shook  her  head  in  sad  assent. 

"  I  had  no  sooner  begun  to  advise  your  poor  Papa  that  he 
really  ought  to  seek  some  distraction  and  restoration  in  a  tem- 
porary change,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  "than  he  told  me  he  had 
already  formed  the  intention  of  going  into  the  country  for  a  short 
time.  I'm  sure  I  hope  he'll  go  very  soon.  He  can't  go  too 
soon.  But  I  suppose  there  are  some  arrangements  connected 
with  his  private  papers  and  so  forth,  consequent  on  the  affliction 
that  has  tried  us  all  so  much — I  can't  think  what's  become  of 
mine  :  Lucretia,  lend  me  yours,  my  dear — that  may  occupy  him 
for  one  or  two  evenings  in  his  own  room.  Your  Papa's  aDom- 
bey,  child,  if  ever  there  was  one,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  drying  both 
her  eyes  at  once  with  great  care  on  opposite  corners  of  Miss 
Tox's  handkerchief.  "  He'll  make  an  effort.  There's  no  fear 
of  him." 

"Is  there  nothing,  aunt,"  asked  Florence,  trembling,  "I 
might  do  to — " 

"  Lord,  my  dear  child,"  interposed  Mrs.  Chick,  hastily, 
"  what  are  you  talking  about  1  If  your  Papa  said  to  Me — I 
have  given  you  his  exact  words,  '  Louisa,  I  want  nothing;  I  am 
better  by  myself  ' — what  do  you  think  he'd  say  to  you  ?  You 
mustn't  show  yourself  to  him,  child.  Don't  dream  of  such  a 
thing." 

*'  Aunt,"  said  Florence,  "  I  will  go  and  lie  down  on  my  bed.** 


t40  bOMBEY  AND  sou. 

Mrs.  Chick  approved  of  this  resolution,  and  dismissed  her 
with  a  kiss.  But  Miss  Tox,  on  a  faint  pretence  of  looking  fo\ 
the  mislaid  handkerchief,  went  upstairs  after  her  ;  and  tried  in 
a  few  stolen  minutes  to  comfort  her,  in  spite  of  great  discourage- 
ment from  Susan  Nipper.  For  Miss  Nipper,  in  her  burnmg 
zeal,  disparaged  Miss  Tox  as  a  crocodile  ;  yet  her  sympathy 
seemed  genuine,  and  had  at  least  the  vantage-ground  of  dis- 
interestedness— there  was  little  favor  to  be  won  by  it. 

And  was  there  no  one  nearer  and  dearer  than  Susan,  to  up- 
hold the  striving  heart  in  its  anguish  ?  Was  there  no  other 
neck  to  clasp  ;  no  other  face  to  turn  to  ?  no  one  else  to  say  a 
soothing  word  to  such  deep  sorrow?  Was  Florence  so  alone  in 
the  bleak  world  that  nothing  else  remained  to  her  ?  Nothing. 
Stricken  motherless  and  brotherless  at  once — for  in  the  loss  of 
little  Paul,  that  first  and  greatest  loss  fell  heavily  upon  her — 
this  was  the  only  help  she  had.  Oh,  who  can  tell  how  much 
she  needed  help  at  first  1 

At  first,  when  the  house  subsided  into  its  accustomed  course, 
and  they  had  all  gone  away,  except  the  servants,  and  her  father 
shut  up  in  his  own  rooms,  Florence  could  do  nothing  but  weep, 
and  wander  up  and  down,  and  sometimes,  in  a  sudden  pang  of 
desolate  remembrance,  fly  to  her  own  chamber,  wring  her  hands, 
lay  her  face  down  on  her  bed,  and  know  no  consolation  :  noth- 
ing but  the  bitterness  and  cruelty  of  grief.  This  commonly  en- 
sued upon  the  recognition  of  some  spot  or  object  very  tenderly 
associated  with  him  ;  and  it  made  the  miserable  house,  at  first, 
a  place  of  agony. 

But  it  is  not  in  the  nature  of  pure  lo\'e  to  burn  so  fiercely 
and  unkindly  long.  The  flame  that  in  its  grosser  composition 
has  the  taint  of  earth,  may  prey  upon  the  breast  that  gives  it 
shelter;  but  the  sacred  fire  from  heaven  is  as  gentle  in  the 
heart,  as  when  it  rested  on  the  heads  of  the  assembled  twelve, 
and  showed  each  man  his  brother,  brightened  and  unhurt.  Tlie 
image  conjured  up,  there  soon  returned  the  placid  face,  the 
softened  voice,  the  loving  looks,  the  quiet  trustfulness  and 
peace ;  and  Florence,  though  slie  wept  still,  wept  more  tranquilly, 
and  courted  the  remembrance. 

It  was  not  very  long  before  the  golden  water,  dancing  on 
the  wall,  in  the  old  place,  at  the  old  serene  time,  had  her  calm 
eye  fixed  upon  it  as  it  ebbed  away.  It  was  not  very  long  be- 
fore that  room  again  knew  her,  often  ;  sitting  there  alone,  as 
patient  and  as  mild  as  when  she  had  watched  beside  the  little 
bed.  When  any  sharp  sense  of  its  being  empty  smote  upon 
|jer,  slie  could  kiiccl  beside  it,  and  pray  GO0— itwas  the  poup 


FATHER  AND  DAUGHTER. 


Ml 


ing  out  of  her  full  heart — to  let  one  angel  love  her  and  remem 
ber  her. 

It  was  not  very  long  before,  in  the  midst  of  the  dismal  house 
so  wide  and  dreary,  her  low  voice  in  the  twilight,  slowly  and 
stopping  sometimes,  touched  the  old  air  to  which  he  had  so 
often  listened,  with  his  drooping  head  upon  her  arm.  And  after 
that,  and  when  it  was  quite  dark,  a  little  strain  of  music  trembled 
in  the  room :  so  softly  played  and  sung,  that  it  was  more  like 
the  mournful  recollection  of  what  she  had  done  at  his  request 
on  that  last  night,  than  the  reality  repeated.  But  it  was  re- 
peated, often — very  often,  in  the  shadowy  solitude  ;  and  broken 
murmurs  of  the  strain  still  trembled  on  the  keys,  when  the  sweet 
voice  was  hushed  in  tears. 

Thus  she  gained  heart  to  look  upon  the  work  with  which  her 
fingers  had  been  busy  by  his  side  on  the  sea-shore  ;  and  thus  it 
was  not  very  long  before  she  took  to  it  again — with  something 
of  a  human  love  for  it,  as  if  it  had  been  sentient  and  had  known 
him ;  and,  sitting  in  a  window,  near  her  mother's  picture,  in 
the  unused  room  so  long  deserted,  wore  away  the  thoughtful 
hours. 

Why  did  the  dark  eyes  turn  so  often  from  this  work  to  where 
the  rosy  children  lived  .''  They  were  not  immediately  suggestive 
of  her  loss  ;  for  they  were  all  girls  :  four  little  sisters.  But  they 
were  motherless  like  her — and  had  a  father. 

It  was  easy  to  know  when  he  had  gone  out  and  was  expected 
home,  for  the  elder  child  was  always  dressed  and  waiting  for 
him  at  the  drawing-room  window,  or  in  the  balcony;  and  when 
he  appeared,  her  expectant  face  lighted  up  with  joy,  while  the 
others  at  the  high  window,  and  always  on  the  watch  too,  clapped 
their  hands,  and  drummed  them  on  the  sill,  and  called  to  him. 
The  elder  child  would  come  down  to  the  hall,  and  put  her 
hand  in  his,  and  lead  him  up  the  stairs ;  and  Florence  would 
see  her  afterwards  sitting  by  his  side,  or  on  his  knee,  or  hang- 
ing coaxingly  about  his  neck  and  talking  to  him  :  and  though 
they  were  always  gay  together,  he  would  often  watch  her  face 
as  if  he  thought  her  like  her  mother  that  was  dead.  Florence 
would  sometimes  look  no  more  at  this,  and  bursting  into  tears 
■would  hide  behind  the  curtain  as  if  she  were  frightened,  or 
would  hurry  from  the  window.  Yet  she  could  not  help  return- 
ing ;  and  her  work  would  soon  fall  unheeded  from  her  hands 
again. 

It  was  the  house  that  had  been  empty,  years  ago.  It  had 
remained  so  for  a  long  time.  At  last,  and  while  she  had  been 
away  from  home,  this  family  had  taken  it ;  and  it  was  repaired 


242  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

and  newly  painted  ;  and  there  were  birds  and  flowers  about  \t ; 
and  it  looked  very  different  from  its  old  self.  But  she  nevei 
thought  of  the  house.  The  children  and  their  father  were  all 
in  all. 

When  he  had  dined,  she  could  see  them,  through  the  open 
windows,  go  down  with  their  governess  or  nurse,  and  cluster 
round  the  table  ;  and  in  the  still  summer  weather,  the  sound  of 
their  childish  voices  and  clear  laughter  would  come  ringing 
across  the  street,  into  the  drooping  air  of  the  room  in  which 
she  sat.  Then  they  would  climb  and  clamber  up  stairs  with 
him,  and  romp  about  him  on  the  sofa,  or  group  themselves  at 
his  knee,  a  very  nosegay  of  little  faces,  while  he  seemed  to  tell 
them  some  stor)\  Or  they  would  come  running  out  into  the 
balcony  ;  and  then  Florence  would  hide  herself  quickly,  lest  it 
should  check  them  in  their  joy,  to  see  her  in  her  black  dress, 
sitting  there  alone. 

The  elder  child  remained  with  her  father  when  the  rest  had 
gone  away,  and  made  his  tea  for  him — happy  little  housekeeper 
she  was  then  ! — and  sat  conversing  with  him,  sometimes  at  the 
window,  sometimes  in  the  room,  until  the  candles  came.  He 
made  her  his  companion,  though  she  was  some  years  younger 
than  Florence  ;  and  she  could  be  as  staid  and  pleasantly  de- 
mure with  her  little  book  or  work-box,  as  a  woman.  When 
they  had  candles,  Florence  from  her  own  dark  room  was  not 
afraid  to  look  again.  But  when  the  time  came  for  the  child  to 
say  "  Good-night,  papa,"  and  go  to  bed,  Florence  would  sob 
and  tremble  as  she  raised  her  face  to  him,  and  could  look  no 
more. 

Though  still  she  would  turn,  again  and  again,  before  going 
to  bed  herself,  from  the  simple  air  that  had  lulled  him  to  rest 
so  often,  long  ago,  and  from  the  other  low  soft  broken  strain 
of  music,  back  to  that  house.  But  that  she  ever  thought  of  it, 
or  watched  it,  was  a  secret  which  she  kept  within  her  own 
young  breast. 

And  did  that  breast  of  Florence — Florence,  so  ingenuous 
and  true — so  worthy  of  the  love  that  he  had  borne  her,  and 
hid  whispered  in  his  last  faint  words — whose  guileless  heart 
■,vas  mirrored  in  the  beauty  of  her  face,  and  breathed  in  ever)' 
accent  of  her  gentle  voice — did  that  young  breast  hold  any 
other  secret  ?     Yes.     One  more. 

When  no  one  in  the  house  was  stirring,  and  the  lights  were 
all  extinguished,  she  would  softly  leave  her  own  room,  and  with 
noiseless  feet  descend  the  staircase,  and  approach  her  father's 
door.     Against  it,  scarcely  breathing,  she  would  rest  her  face 

r 


FA  THER  A  iVD  DA  UGHTER.  ^l^ 

and  head,  and  press  her  lips,  in  the  yearning  of  her  love.  She 
crouched  upon  the  cold  stone  floor  outside  it,  every  night,  to 
listen  even  for  his  breath  ;  and  in  her  one  absorbing  wish  to  be 
allowed  to  show  him  some  affection,  to  be  a  consolation  to  him, 
to  win  him  over  to  the  endurance  of  some  tenderness  frorn  her, 
his  solitary  child,  she  would  have  knelt  down  at  his  feet,  if  she 
had  dared,  in  humble  supplication. 

No  one  knew  it.  No  one  thought  of  it.  The  door  was 
ever  closed,  and  he  shut  up  within.  He  went  out  once  or 
twice,  and  it  was  said  in  the  house  that  he  was  very  soon  going 
on  his  country  journey ;  but  he  lived  in  those  rooms,  and  lived 
alone,  and  never  saw  her,  or  inquired  for  her.  Perhaps  he  did 
not  even  know  that  she  was  in  the  house. 

One  day,  about  a  week  after  the  funeral,  Florence  was  sit- 
ting at  her  work,  when  Susan  appeared,  with  a  face  half  laugh- 
ing and  half  crying,  to  announce  a  visitor. 

"  A  visitor  !  To  me,  Susan  !  "  said  Florence,  looking  up  in 
astonishment. 

"  Well,  it  is  a  wonder,  ain't  it  now.  Miss  Floy,"  said  Susan  ; 
"  but  I  wish  you  had  a  many  visitors,  I  do,  indeed,  for  you'd  be 
all  the  better  for  it,  and  it's  my  opinion  that  the  sooner  you 
and  me  goes  even  to  them  old  Skettleses,  miss,  the  better  for 
both.  I  may  not  wish  to  live  in  crowds,  Miss  Floy,  but  still 
I'm  not  a  oyster," 

To  do  Miss  Nipper  justice,  she  spoke  more  for  her  young 
mistress  than  herself  ;  and  her  face  showed  it. 

"  But  the  visitor,  Susan,"  said  Florence. 

Susan,  with  an  hysterical  e::plosion  that  was  as  much  a 
laugh  as  a  sob,  and  as  much  a  sob  as  a  laugh,  answered, 

"  Mr.  Toots  !  " 

The  smile  that  appeared  on  Florence's  face  passed  from  x 
in  a  moment,  and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears.  r>ut  at  any  rate 
it  was  a  smile,  and  that  gave  great  satisfaction  to  Miss  Nipper. 

"  My  own  feelings  exactly,  Miss  Floy,"  said  Susan,  putting 
her  apron  to  her  eyes,  and  shaking  her  head.  "  Immediately 
I  see  the  Innocent  in  the  Hall,  Miss  Floy,  I  burst  out  laughing 
first,  and  then  I  choked." 

Susan  Nipper  involuntarily  proceeded  to  do  the  like  again 
on  the  spot.  In  the  meantime  Mr.  Toots,  who  had  come  up- 
stairs after  her,  all  unconscious  of  the  effect  he  produced, 
announced  himself  with  his  knuckles  on  the  door,  and  walked 
in  very  briskly. 

"  How  dy'e  do.  Miss  Dombey  ?  "  said  Mr.  Toots.  "  I  m 
Tery  well,  I  thank  you  ;  how  are  you  ?  " 


244  DOMBEY  AND  SOA. 

Mr.  Toots — than  whom  there  were  few  better  fellows  in  tht 
world,  though  there  may  have  been  one  or  two  brighter  spirits 
— had  laboriously  invented  this  long  burst  of  discourse  with  the 
view  of  relieving  the  feelings  both  of  Florence  and  himself. 
But  finding  that  he  had  run  through  his  property,  as  it  were,  in 
an  injudicious  manner,  by  squandering  the  whole  before  taking 
a  chair,  or  before  Florence  had  uttered  a  word,  or  before  he  had 
•well  got  in  at  the  door,  he  deemed  it  advisable  to  begin  again. 

'*  How  dy'e  do,  Miss  Dombey  ?  "  said  Mr.  Toots.  "  I'm 
very  well,  I  thank  you  ;  how  are  you  ?  " 

Florence  gave  him  her  hand,  and  said  she  was  very  well. 

"  Fm  very  well  indeed,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  taking  a  chair. 
"  Very  well  indeed,  I  am.  I  don't  remember,"  said  Mr.  Toots, 
after  reflecting  a  little,  "  that  I  was  ever  better,  thank  you." 

"  It's  very  kind  of  you  to  come,"  said  Florence,  taking  up 
her  work.     "  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you." 

Mr.  Toots  responded  with  a  chuckle.  Thinking  that  might 
be  too  lively,  he  corrected  it  with  a  sigh.  Thinking  that  might 
be  too  melancholy,  he  corrected  it  with  a  chuckle.  Not  thor- 
oughly pleasing  himself  with  either  mode  of  reply,  he  breathed 
hard. 

"  You  were  very  kind  to  my  dear  brother,"  said  Florence, 
obeying  her  own  natural  impulse  to  relieve  him  by  saying  so. 
"  He  often  talked  to  me  about  you." 

"  Oh,  it's  of  no  consequence,"  said  Mr.  Toots  hastily. 
"Warm,  ain't  it? " 

"It  is  beautiful  weather,"  replied  Florence. 

"It  agrees  with  me/"  said  Mr.  Toots.  "I  don't  think  I 
ever  was  so  well  as  I  find  myself  at  present,  I'm  obliged  to 
you." 

After  stating  this  curious  and  unexpected  fact,  Mr.  Toots 
fell  into  a  deep  well  of  silence. 

"  You  have  left  Doctor  Blimber's,  I  think  ?  "  said  Florence, 
Kxy'ing  to  help  him  out. 

"  I  should  hope  so,"  returned  Mr.  Toots.  And  tumbled  in 
again. 

He  remained  at  the  bottom,  apparently  drowned,  for  at  least 
ten  minutes.  At  the  expiration  of  that  period,  he  suddenly 
floated,  and  said. 

"Well  !  Good-morning,  Miss  Dombey." 

".Are  you  going .?  "  asked  Florence,  rising. 

"I  don't  know,  though.  No,  not  just  at  present,"  said  Mr. 
Toots,  sitting  down  again,  most  unexpectedly.  "  The  fact  is— < 
I  say,  Miss  Dombey  I  " 


PA  nt^k  A  Mb  DA  t/G/rrnk.  445 

'*  Don't  be  afraid  to  speak  to  me,"  said  Florence,  with  a 
quiet  smile,  "  I  should  be  very  glad  if  you  would  talk  about  my 
brother." 

"  Would  you,  though,"  retorted  Mr.  Toots,  with  sympathy 
in  every  fibre  of  his  otherwise  expressionless  face.  "Poor 
Dombey  !  I'm  sure  I  never  thought  that  Burgess  and  Co. — 
fashionable  tailors  (but  very  dear),  that  we  used  to  talk  about 
— would  make  this  suit  of  clothes  for  such  a  purpose."  Mr. 
Toots  was  dressed  in  mourning.  "  Poor  Dombey !  I  say  ! 
Miss  Dombey  !  "  blubbered  Toots. 

*'  Yes,"  said  Florence. 

"  There's  a  friend  he  took  to  very  much  at  last.  I  thought 
you'd  like  to  have  him,  perhaps,  as  a  sort  of  keepsake.  You 
remember  his  remembering  Diogenes  "i  " 

"  Oh  yes  !  oh  yes  !  "  cried  Florence. 

"  Poor  Dombey  !     So  do  I,"  said  Mr.  Toots. 

Mr.  Toots,  seeing  Florence  in  tears,  had  great  difficulty  in 
getting  beyond  this  point,  and  had  nearly  tumbled  into  the  well 
again.     But  a  chuckle  saved  him  on  the  brink. 

"I  say,"  he  proceeded,  "  Miss  Dombey!  I  could  have  had 
him  stolen  for  ten  shillings,  if  they  hadn't  given  him  up  :  and  I 
would  :  but  they  were  glad  to  get  rid  of  him,  I  think.  If  you'd 
like  to  have  him,  he's  at  the  door.  I  brought  him  on  purpose 
for  you.  He  ain't  a  lady's  dog,  you  know,"  said  Mr.  Toots, 
"  but  you  won't  mind  that,  will  you  ?  " 

In  fact  Diogenes  was  at  that  moment,  as  they  presently  as- 
certained from  looking  down  into  the  street,  staring  through  the 
window  of  a  hackney  cabriolet,  into  which,  for  conveyance  to 
that  spot,  he  had  been  ensnared,  on  a  false  pretence  of  rats 
among  the  straw.  Sooth  to  say,  he  was  as  unlike  a  lady's  dog 
as  dog  might  be  ;  and  in  his  gruff  anxiety  to  get  out,  presented 
an  appearence  sufficiently  unpromising,  as  he  gave  short  yelps 
out  of  one  side  of  his  mouth,  and  overbalancing  himself  by  the 
intensity  of  every  one  of  those  efforts,  tumbled  down  into  the 
straw,  and  then  sprung  panting  up  again,  putting  out  his  tongue, 
as  if  he  had  come  express  to  a  Dispensary  to  be  examined  for 
his  health. 

But  though  Diogenes  was  as  ridiculous  a  dog  as  one  would 
meet  with  on  a  summer's  day  ;  a  blundering,  ill-favored,  clumsy, 
bullet-headed  dog,  continually  acting  on  a  wrong  idea  that  there 
was  an  enemy  in  the  neighborhood,  whom  it  was  meritorious 
to  bark  at ;  and  though  he  was  far  from  good-tempered,  and 
certainly  was  not  clever,  and  had  hair  all  over  his  eyes,  and  a 
comic  nose,  and  an  inconsistent  tail,  and  a  gruff  voice ;  be  was 


;  i4^  DOMBk  Y  Ax\D  SDK'. 

clearer  to  Florence,  in  virtue  of  that  parting  remembrance  of 
him,  and  that  request  that  he  might  be  taken  care  of,  than  the 
most  valuable  and  beautiful  of  his  kind.  So  dear,  indeed,  was 
this  same  ugly  Diogenes,  and  so  welcome  to  her,  that  she  took 
the  jewelled  hand  of  Mr.  Toots  and  kissed  it  in  her  gratitude. 
And  \yhen  Diogenes,  released,  came  tearing  up  the  stairs  and 
bouncing  into  the  room  (such  a  business  as  there  was  first  to 
get  him  out  of  the  cabriolet  !),  dived  under  all  the  furniture,  and 
wound  a  long  iron  chain,  that  dangled  from  his  neck,  round 
legs  of  chairs  and  tables,  and  then  tugged  at  it  until  his  eyes 
became  unnaturally  visible,  in  consequence  of  their  nearly  start- 
ing out  of  his  head ;  and  when  he  growled  at  Mr.  Toots,  who 
alfected  familiarity  ;  and  went  pell-mell  at  Towlinson,  morally 
convinced  that  he  was  the  enemy  whom  he  had  barked  at 
round  the  corner  all  his  life  and  had  never  seen  yet;  Florence 
was  as  pleased  with  him  as  if  he  had  been  a  miracle  of  discre- 
tion. 

Mr.  Toots  was  so  overjoyed  by  the  success  of  his  present, 
and  was  so  delighted  to  see  Florence  bending  down  over  Di- 
ogenes, smoothing  his  coarse  back  with  her  little  delicate  hand 
— Diogenes  graciously  allowing  it  from  the  first  moment  of  their 
acquaintance  —that  he  felt  it  difficult  to  take  leave,  and  would, 
no  doubt,  have  been  a  much  longer  time  in  making  up  his  mind 
to  do  so,  if  he  had  not  been  assisted  by  Diogenes  himself,  who 
suddenly  took  it  into  his  head  to  bay  Mr.  Toots,  and  to  make 
short  runs  at  him  with  his  mouth  open.  Not  exactly  seeing  his 
way  to  the  end  of  these  demonstrations,  and  sensible  that  they 
placed  the  pantaloons  constructed  by  the  art  of  Burgess  &  Co. 
in  jeopardy,  Mr.  Toots,  with  chuckles,  lapsed  out  at  the  door  ; 
by  which,  after  looking  in  again  two  or  three  times,  without  any 
object  at  all,  and  being  on  each  occasion  greeted  with  a  fresh 
run  from  Diogenes  he  finally  took  himself  off  and  got  away. 

"  Come,  then,  Di !  Dear  Di !  Make  friends  w-ith  your  new 
mistress.  Det  us  love  each  other,  Di  !  "  saitl  Florence,' fondling 
his  shaggy  head.  And  Di,  the  rough  antl  gruff,  as  if  his  hairy 
hide  were  pervious  to  the  tear  that  dropped  upon  it,  and  his 
dog's  heart  melted  as  it  fell,  put  his  nose  up  to  her  face,  and 
swore  fidelity. 

Diogenes  the  man  did  not  speak  plainer  to  Alexander  the 
Great  than  Diogenes  the  dog  spoke  to  Florence.  He  sub- 
scribed to  the  offer  of  his  little  mistress  cheerfully,  and  devoted 
himself  to  her  service.  A  banquet  was  immediately  proviiled 
for  him  in  a  corner ;  and  when  he  had  eaten  and  drunk  his  fill, 
W  went  to  the  window  where  Florence  was  sitting,  looking  on, 


FATHER  AND  DAUGHTER.  247 

rose  up  on  his  hind  legs,  with  his  awkward  fore  paws  on  her 
shoulders,  licked  her  face  and  hands,  nestled  his  great  head 
against  her  heart,  and  wagged  his  tail  till  he  was  tired.  Final- 
ly, Diogenes  coiled  himself  up  at  her  feet  and  went  to  sleep. 

Although  Miss  Nipper  was  nervous  in  regard  of  dogs,  and 
felt  it  necessary  to  come  into  the  room  with  her  skirts  carefully 
collected  about  her,  as  if  she  were  crossing  a  brook  on  stepping- 
stones  ;  also  to  utter  little  screams  and  stand  up  on  chairs 
when  Diogenes  stretched  himself :  she  was  in  her  own  manner 
affected  by  the  kindness  of  Mr.  Toots,  and  could  not  see  Flor- 
ence so  alive  to  the  attachment  and  society  of  this  rude  friend 
of  little  Paul's,  without  some  mental  comments  thereupon  that 
brought  the  water  to  her  eyes.  Mr.  Dombe}^,  as  a  part  of  her 
reflections,  may  have  been,  in  the  association  of  ideas,  con- 
nected with  the  dog  ;  but,  at  any  rate,  after  observing  Diogenes 
and  his  mistress  all  the  evening,  and  after  exerting  herself  with 
much  good  will  to  provide  Diogenes  a  bed  in  an  ante-chamber 
outside  his  mistress's  door,  she  said  hurriedly  to  Florence, 
before  leaving  her  for  the  night. 

"  Your  Pa's  a  going  off  Miss  Floy,  to-morrow  morning." 

*'  To-morrow  morning,  Susan  ?  " 

"Yes,  Miss;  that's  the  orders.     Early." 

"  Do  you  know,"  asked  Florence,  without  looking  at  her, 
**  where  Papa  is  going,  Susan  ?  " 

"Not  exactly.  Miss.  He's  going  to  meet  that  precious 
Major  first,  and  I  must  say  if  I  was  acquainted  with  any  Major 
myself  (which  Heavens  forbid),  it  shouldn't  be  a  blue  one  ! " 

"  Hush,  Susan  !  "  urged  Florence  gently. 

"Well,  Miss  Floy,"  returned  Miss  Nipper,  who  was  full  of 
burning  indignation,  and  minded  her  stops  even  less  than 
usual.  "  I  can't  help  it,  blue  he  is,  and  while  I  was  a  Christian, 
although  humble,  I  would  have  natural-colored  friends,  or 
none." 

It  appeared  from  what  she  added  and  had  gleaned  down 
stairs,  that  Mrs.  Chick  had  proposed  the  Major  for  Mr.  Dom- 
bey's  companion,  and  that  Mr.  Dombey,  after  some  hesitation, 
had  invited  him. 

''Talk  of  Jiim  being  a  change,  indeed!"  observed  Miss 
Nipper  to  herself  with  boundless  contempt.  "  If  he's  a  change 
give  me  a  constancy." 

"  Good-night,  Susan,"  said  Florence. 

"  Good-night,  my  darling  dear  Miss  Floy." 

Her    tone  ®f    commiseration   smote  the    chord  so  often 


3,48  DOMBR  Y  AND  SON. 

roughly  touched,  but  never  listened  to  while  she  or  anyone 
looked  on.  Florence  left  alone,  laid  her  head  upon  her  hand, 
and  pressing  the  other  over  her  swelling  heart,  held  free  com- 
munication with  her  sorrows. 

It  was  a  wet  night ;  and  the  melancholy  rain  fell  pattering 
and  dropping  with  a  wearied  sound.  A  sluggish  wind  was 
blowing,  and  went  moaning  round  the  house,  as  if  it  were  in 
pain  or  grief.  A  shrill  noise  quivered  through  the  trees. 
While  she  sat  weeping,  it  grew  late,  and  dreary  midnight  tolled 
out  from  the  steeples. 

Florence  was  little  more  than  a  child  in  years — not  yet 
fourteen — and  the  loneliness  and  gloom  of  such  an  hour  in 
the  great  house  where  Death  had  lately  made  its  own  tremen- 
dous devastation,  might  have  set  an  older  fancy  brooding  on 
vague  terrors.  But  her  innocent  imagination  was  too  full  of 
one  theme  to  admit  them.  Nothing  wandered  in  her  thoughts 
but  love — a  wandering  love,  indeed,  and  cast  away — but  turn- 
ing always  to  her  father. 

There  was  nothing  in  the  dropping  of  the  rain,  the  moan- 
ing of  the  wind,  the  shuddering  of  the  trees,  the  striking  of 
the  solemn  clocks,  that  shook  this  one  thought,  or  diminished 
its  interest.  Her  recollections  of  the  dear  dead  boy — and 
they  were  never  absent — were  itself;  the  same  thing.  And  oh, 
to  be  shut  out  \  to  be  so  lost :  never  to  have  looked  into  her 
father's  face  or  touched  him  since  that  hour ! 

She  could  not  go  to  bed,  poor  child,  and  never  had  gone 
yet,  since  then,  without  making  her  nightly  pilgrimage  to  his 
door.  It  would  have  been  a  strange  sad  sight,  to  see  her  now, 
stealing  lightly  down  the  stairs  through  the  thick  gloom,  and 
stopping  at  it  with  a  beating  heart,  and  blinded  eyes,  and  hair 
that  fell  down  loosely  and  unthought  of;  and  touching  it  out- 
side with  her  wet  cheek.  But  the  night  covered  it,  and  no  one 
knew. 

The  moment  that  she  touched  the  door  on  this  night, 
Florence  found  that  it  was  open.  For  the  first  time  it  stood 
open,  though  by  but  a  hair's-breadth  :  and  there  was  a  light 
within.  The  first  impulse  of  the  timid  child — and  she  yielded 
to  it — was  to  retire  swiftly.  Her  next,  to  go  back,  and  to  enter: 
and  this  second  impulse  held  her  in  irresolution  on  the  stair- 
case. 

In  its  standing  open,  even  by  so  much  as  that  chink,  there 
seemed  to  be  hope.  'Inhere  was  encouragement  in  seeing  a 
ray  of  light  from  within,  stealing  through  the  dark  stern  door- 
wiy,  and  falling  in  a  thread  upon  the  marble  floor.     She  turned 


FATHER  AND  DAtJGHTEk.  44^ 

back,  hardly  knowing  what  she  did,  but  urged  on  by  the  love 
within  her,  and  the  trial  they  had  undergone  together,  but  not 
shared :  and  with  her  hands  a  little  raised  and  trembling, 
glided  in. 

Her  father  sat  at  his  old  table  in  the  middle  room.  He  had 
been  arranging  some  papers,  and  destroying  others,  and  the 
latter  lay  in  fragile  ruins  before  him.  The  rain  dripped  heavily 
upon  the  glass  panes  in  the  outer  room,  where  he  had  so  often 
watched  poor  Paul,  a  baby  ;  and  the  low  complainings  of  the 
wind  were  heard  without. 

But  not  by  him.  He  sat  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  table, 
so  immersed  in  thought,  that  a  far  heavier  tread  than  the  light 
foot  of  his  child  could  make,  might  have  failed  to  rouse  him. 
His  face  was  turned  towards  her.  By  the  waning  lamp,  and  at 
that  haggard  hour,  it  looked  worn  and  dejected ;  and  in  the 
utter  loneliness  surrounding  him,  there  was  an  appeal  to 
Florence  that  struck  home. 

"  Papa  !  Papa !     Speak  to  me,  dear  Papa  !  " 

He  started  at  her  voice,  and  leaped  up  from  his  seat.  She 
was  close  before  him,  with  extended  arms,  but  he  fell  back. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  he  said,  sternly.  "Why  do  you 
come  here  ?     What  has  frightened  you  ?  " 

If  anything  had  frightened  her,  it  was  the  face  he  turned 
upon  her.  The  glowing  love  within  the  breast  of  his  young 
daughter  froze  before  it,  and  she  stood  and  looked  at  him  as  if 
stricken  into  stone. 

There  was  not  one  touch  of  tenderness  or  pity  in  it.  There 
was  not  one  gleam  of  interest,  parental  recognition,  or  relent- 
ing in  it.  There  was  a  change  in  it,  but  not  of  that  kind.  The 
old  indifference  and  cold  constraint  had  given  place  to  some- 
thing ;  what,  she  never  thought  and  did  not  dare  to  think,  and 
yet  she  felt  it  in  its  force,  and  knew  it  well  without  a  name : 
that  as  it  looked  upon  her,  seemed  to  cast  a  shadow  on  her 
head. 

Did  he  see  before  him  the  successful  rival  of  his  son,  in 
health  and  life  .>  Did  he  look  upon  his  own  successful  rival  in 
that  son's  affection  1  Did  a  mad  jealousy  and  withered  pride, 
poison  sweet  remembrances  that  should  have  endeared  and 
made  her  precious  to  him  ?  Could  it  be  possible  that  it  was 
gall  to  him  to  look  upon  her  in  her  beauty  and  her  promise  r 
thinking  of  his  infant  boy  ! 

Florence  had  no  such  thoughts.  But  love  is  quick  to  know 
when  it  is  spurned  and  hopeless  :  and  hope  died  out  of  hers, 
as  she  stood  looking  in  her  father's  face. 


350  liOMUKY  AND  SON. 

"I  ask  you,  Florence,  are  you  frii;htened  ?  Is  there  any 
thing  the  matter,  that  you  come  here  ?  " 

"  I  came  papa — " 

"  Against  my  wishes.     Why  ?  " 

She  saw  he  knew  why :  it  was  written  broadly  on  his  face ; 
and  dropped  her  head  upon  her  hands  with  one  prolonged  low 
cry. 

Let  him  remember  it  in  that  room,  years  to  come.  It  has 
faded  from  the  air,  before  he  breaks  the  silence.  It  may  pass 
as  quickly  from  his  brain,  as  he  believes,  but  it  is  there.  Let 
him  remember  it  in  that  room,  years  to  come  ! 

He  took  her  by  the  arm.  His  hand  was  cold,  and  loose, 
and  scarcely  closed  ujDon  her. 

"  You  are  tired,  I  dare  say,"  he  said,  taking  up  the  light, 
and  leading  her  towards  the  door,  "  and  want  rest.  We  all 
want  rest.     Go,  Florence.     You  have  been  dreaming." 

The  dream  she  had  had,  was  over  then,  God  help  her  !  and 
she  felt  that  it  could  never  more  come  back. 

"I  will  remain  here  to  light  you  up  the  stairs.  The  whole 
house  is  yours  above  there,"  said  her  father,  slowly.  "  You 
are  its  mistress  now.     Good-night !  " 

Still  covering  her  face,  she  sobbed,  and  answered  "Good- 
night, dear  Papa,"  and  silently  ascended.  Once  she  looked 
back  as  if  she  would  have  returned  to  him,  but  for  fear.  It 
was  a  momentary  thought,  too  hopeless  to  encourage ;  and  her 
father  stood  there  with  the  light — hard,  unresponsive,  motion- 
less— until  the  fluttering  dress  of  his  fair  child  was  lost  in  the 
darkness. 

Let  him  remember  it  in  that  room,  years  to  come.  The  rain 
that  falls  upon  the  roof :  the  wind  that  mourns  outside  the 
door :  may  have  foreknowledge  in  their  melancholy  sound. 
Let  him  remember  it  in  that  room,  years  to  come  ! 

The  last  time  he  had  watched  her,  from  the  same  place, 
winding  up  those  stairs,  she  had  had  her  brother  in  her  arms. 
It  did  not  move  his  heart  towards  her  now,  it  steeled  it ;  but  he 
went  into  his  room,  and  locked  his  door,  and  sat  down  in  his 
chair,  and  cried  for  his  lost  boy. 

Diogenes  was  broad  awake  upon  his  post,  and  waiting  for 
his  little  mistress. 

"  Oh  Di  I     Oh  dear  Di !     Love  me  for  his  sake  !  " 

Diogenes  already  loved  her  for  her  own,  and  didn't  care  how 
much  he  showed  it.  So  he  made  himself  vastly  ridiculous  by 
performing  a  variety  of  uncouth  bounces  in  the  ante-chamber, 
and  concluded,  when  poor  Florence  was  at  last  asleep,  and 


WALl^ER  GOES  AWAY. 


251 


dreaming  of  the  rosy  children  opposite,  by  scratching  open  hei 
bed-rooin  door :  rolling  up  his  bed  into  a  pillow  :  lying  down 
on  the  boards,  at  the  full  length  of  his  tether,  with  his  head 
towards  her  ;  and  looking  lazily  at  her,  upside  down,  out  of  the 
tops  of  his  eyes,  until  from  winking  and  winking  he  fell  asleep 
himself,  and  dreamed,  with  gruff  barks,  of  his  enemy. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

WALTER    GOES   AWAY. 


The  Wooden  Midshipman  at  the  Instrument-maker's  door, 
like  the  hard-hearted  little  midshipman  he  was,  remained  su- 
premel}'  indifferent  to  Walter's  going  away,  even  when  the  very 
last  day  of  his  sojourn  in  the  back  parlor  was  on  the  decline. 
With  his  quadrant  at  his  round  black  knob  of  an  eye,  and  his 
figure  in  its  old  attitude  of  indomitable  alacrity,  the  midship- 
man displayed  his  elfin  small-clothes  to  the  best  advantage,  and 
absorbed  in  scientific  pursuits,  had  no  sympathy  with  worldly 
concerns.  He  was  so  far  the  creature  of  circumstances,  that  a 
dry  day  covered  him  with  dust,  and  a  misty  day  peppered  him 
with  little  bits  of  soot,  and  a  wet  day  brightened  up  his  tar- 
nished uniform  for  the  moment,  and  a  very  hot  day  blistered 
him ;  but  otherwise  he  was  a  callous,  obdurate,  conceited  mid- 
shipman, intent  on  his  own  discoveries,  and  caring  as  little  for 
what  went  on  about  him,  terrestrially,  as  Archimedes  at  the 
taking  of  Syracuse. 

Such  a  midshipman  he  seemed  to  be,  at  least,  in  the  then 
position  of  domestic  affairs.  Walter  eyed  him  kindly  many  a 
time  in  passing  in  and  out ;  and  poor  old  Sol,  when  Walter  was 
not  there,  would  come  and  lean  against  the  door-post,  resting 
his  weary  wig  as  near  the  shoe-buckles  of  the  guardian  genius 
of  his  trade  and  shop  as  he  could.  But  no  fierce  idol  with  a 
mouth  from  ear  to  ear,  and  a  murderous  visage  made  of  parrot's 
feathers,  was  ever  more  indifferent  to  the  appeals  of  its  savage 
votaries,  than  was  the  midshipman  to  these  marks  of  attach- 
ment. 

Walter's  heart  felt  heavy  as  he  looked  round  his  old  bed* 
room,  up  among  the  parapets  and  chimney-pots,  and  thought 
that  one  more  night  already  darkening  would  close  his.acquaint* 


ss^ 


DOMBEY  AND  SO  AT. 


ance  with  it,  perhaps  forever.  Dismantled  of  his  little  stock  of 
books  and  pictures,  it  looked  coldly  and  reproachfully  on  hiia 
for  his  desertion,  and  had  already  a  foreshadowing  upon  it  of 
its  coming  strangeness.  "  A  few  hours  more,"  thought  Walter, 
'•  and  no  dream  I  ever  had  here  when  I  was  a  school-boy  will 
be  so  little  mine  as  this  old  room.  The  dream  may  come  back 
in  my  sleep,  and  I  may  return  waking  to  this  place,  it  may  be : 
but  the  dream  at  least  will  serve  no  other  master,  and  the  room 
may  have  a  score,  and  every  one  of  them  may  change,  neglect, 
misuse  it." 

But  his  uncle  was  not  to  be  left  alone  in  the  little  back  par- 
lor, where  he  was  then  sitting  by  himself ;  for  Captain  Cuttle, 
considerate  in  his  roughness,  stayed  away  against  his  will,  pur- 
posely that  they  should  have  some  talk  together  unobserved : 
so  Walter,  newly  returned  home  from  his  last  day's  bustle,  de* 
scended  briskly,  to  bear  him  company. 

"  Uncle,"  he  said  gayly,  laying  his  hand  upon  the  old  man's 
shoulder,  "  what  shall  I  send  you  home  from  Barbadoes .''  " 

"  Hope,  my  dear  Wally.  Hope  that  we  shall  meet  again, 
on  this  side  of  the  grave.  Send  me  as  much  of  that  as  you 
can." 

"  So  I  will,  Uncle  :  I  have  enough  and  to  spare,  and  I'll  not 
be  chary  of  it !  And  as  to  lively  turtles,  and  limes  for  Captain 
Cuttle's  punch,  and  preserves  for  you  on  Sundays,  and  all  that 
sort  of  thing,  why  I'll  send  you  ship-loads,  Uncle  :  when  I'm 
rich  enough," 

Old  Sol  wiped  his  spectacles,  and  faintly  smiled. 

"  That's  right,  Uncle  !  "  cried  Walter,  merrily,  and  clapping 
him  half  a  dozen  times  more  upon  the  shoulder.  "  You  cheer 
up  me  !  I'll  cheer  up  you  !  We'll  be  as  gay  as  larks  to-morrow 
morning,  Uncle,  and  we'll  fly  as  high  !  As  to  my  anticipations, 
they  are  singing  out  of  sight  now." 

"  Wally,  my  dear  boy,"  returned  the  old  man,  "  I'll  do  my 
best,  I'll  do  my  best." 

"  Andyour  best,  Uncle,"  said  Walter,  with  his  pleasant  laugh, 
"  is  the  best  best  that  I  know.  You'll  not  forget  what  you're  to 
send  me.  Uncle  ?  " 

"No,  Wally,  no,"  replied  the  old  man ;"  everything  I 
hear  about  Miss  Dombey,  now  that  she  is  left  alone,  poor 
lamb,  I'll  write.     I  fear  it  won't  be  much  though,  Wally," 

"Why,  I'll  tell  you  what,  Uncle,"  said  Walter,  after  a  ir  t> 
ment's  hesitation,  "  1  ha\  e  just  been  up  there." 

"  Ay,  ay,  ay  ?  "  murmured  the  old  man,  raising  his  eyebrows, 
and  his  spectacles  with  them. 


iVAL  TER  GOES  A IV A  Y.  253 

"  Not  to  see  her,"  said  Walter,  "  though  I  could  have  seen 
her,  I  dare  say,  if  I  had  asked,  Mr.  Dombey  being  out  of  town  : 
but  to  say  a  parting  word  to  Susan.  I  thought  I  might  venture 
to  do  that,  you  know,  under  the  circumstances,  and  remember- 
ing when  I  saw  Miss  Dombey  last." 

"Yes,  my  boy,  yes,"  replied  his  uncle,  rousing  himself  from 
a  temporary  abstraction. 

"  So  I  saw  her,"  pursued  Walter,  "  Susan,  I  mean  :  and  I  told 
her  I  was  off  and  away  to-morrow.  And  I  said.  Uncle,  that 
you  had  always  had  an  interest  in  Miss  Dombey  since  that  night 
when  she  was  here,  and  always  wished  her  well  and  happy,  and 
always  would  be  proud  and  glad  to  serve  her  in  the  least :  I 
thought  I  might  say  that,  you  know,  under  the  circumstances. 
Don't  you  think  so  ?  " 

"  Yes,  my  boy,  yes,"  replied  his  Uncle,  in  the  same  tone 
as  before. 

"  And  I  added,"  pursued  Walter,  "  that  if  she— Susan,  I 
mean — could  ever  let  you  know,  either  through  herself,  or  Mrs. 
Richards,  or  anybody  else  who  might  be  coming  this  way,  that 
Miss  Dombey  was  well  and  happy,  you  would  take  it  very  kindly, 
too.  There  !  Upon  my  word.  Uncle,"  said  Walter,  "  I  scarcely 
slept  all  last  night  through  thinking  of  doing  this  ;  and  could 
not  make  up  my  mind  when  I  was  out,  whether  to  do  it  or  not ; 
and  yet  I  am  sure  it  is  the  true  feeling  of  my  heart,  and  I 
should  have  been  quite  miserable  afterwards  if  I  had  not  re- 
lieved it." 

His  honest  voice  and  manner  corroborated  what  he  said, 
and  quite  established  its  ingenuousness. 

"  So,  if  you  ever  see  her.  Uncle,"  said  Walter,  "  I  mean 
Miss  Dombey  now — and  perhaps  you  may,  who  knows  _! — tell 
her  how  much  I  felt  for  her  ;  how  much  I  used  to  think  of 
her  when  I  was  here ;  how  I  spoke  of  her,  with  the  tears  in 
-my  eyes.  Uncle,  on  this  last  night  before  I  went  away.  Tell 
her  that  I  said  I  never  could  forget  her  gentle  manner,  or  her 
beautiful  face,  or  her  sweet  kind  disposition  that  was  better 
than  all.  And  as  I  didn't  take  them  from  a  woman's  feet,  or 
a  young  lady's :  only  a  little  innocent  child's,"  said  Walter : 
"  tell  her,  if  you  don't  mind,  Uncle,  that  I  kept  those  shoes — • 
she'll  remember  how  often  they  fell  off,  that  night — and  took 
them  away  with  me  as  a  remembrance  !  " 

They  were  at  that  very  moment  going  out  at  the  door  in 
one  of  Walter's  trunks.  A  porter  carrying  off  his  baggage  on 
a  truck  for  shipment  at  the  docks  on  board  the  Son  and  Heir, 
had  got  possession  <?f  them ;  and  wheeled  them  away  under 


254 


DOMBEY  AND  SO.Y. 


the  very  ej'C  of  the  insensible  Midshipman  before  their  ownel 
had  we!l  finished  speaking. 

But  that  ancient  mariner  might  have  been  excused  his  in- 
sensibiHty  to  the  treasure  as  it  rolled  away.  For,  under  his 
eye  at  the  same  moment,  accurately  within  his  range  of  obser- 
vation, coming  full  into  the  sphere  of  his  startled  and  intensely 
wide  awake  look-out,  were  Florence  and  Susan  Nipper  :  Flor- 
ence looking  up  into  his  face  half  timidly,  and  receiving  the 
whole  shock  of  his  wooden  ogling  ! 

More  than  this,  they  passed  into  the  shop,  and  passed  in 
at  the  parlor  door  before  they  were  observed  by  anybody  but 
the  Midshipman.  And  Walter,  having  his  back  to  the  door, 
would  have  known  nothing  of  iheir  apparition  even  then,  but 
for  seeing  his  uncle  spring  out  of  his  own  chair,  and  nearly 
tumble  over  another. 

"  Why  Uncle  !  "  exclaimed  Walter.  "  What's  the  mat- 
ter ?  " 

Old  Solomon  replied,  "  Miss  Dombey !  " 

"  Is  it  possible  !  "  cried  Walter,  looking  round  and  starting 
up  in  his  turn.     "  Here  !  " 

Why  it  was  so  possible  and  so  actual,  that,  while  the  words 
were  on  his  lips,  Florence  hurried  past  him ;  took  Uncle  Sol's 
snuff-colored  lappels,  one  in  each  hand  ;  kissed  him  on  the 
cheek ;  and  turning,  gave  her  hand  to  Walter  with  a  simple 
truth  and  earnestness  that  was  her  own,  and  no  one  else's  in 
the  world  ! 

"  Going  awa}'-,  Walter  !  "  said  Florence. 

"  Yes,  Miss  Dombey,"  he  replied,  but  not  so  hopefully  as 
he  endeavored  :  "  I  have  a  voyage  before  me." 

"  And  your  Uncle,"  said  Florence,  looking  back  at  Solo- 
mon. '*  He  is  sorry  you  are  going,  1  am  sure.  Ah  !  I  see  he 
is !     Deav  Walter,  I  am  very  sorry  too." 

"Goodness  knows,"  exclaimed  Miss  Nipper,  "there's  a 
many  we  could  spare  instead,  if  numbers  is  a  object,  Mrs. 
Pipchin  as  a  overseer  would  come  cheap  at  her  weight  in  gold, 
and  if  a  knowledge  of  black  slavery  should  be  required,  them 
Blimbers  is  the  very  people  for  the  sitiwation." 

With  that  Miss  Nipper  untied  her  bonnet  strings,  and 
after  looking  vacantly  for  some  moments  into  a  little  black 
tea-pot  that  was  set  forth  with  the  usual  homely  service,  on 
the  table,  shook  her  head  and  a  tin  canister,  and  began  un- 
asked to  make  the  tea. 

In  the  mean  time  Florence  had  turned  again  to  the  Instru- 
ment-maker, who  was  as  full  of  admiration  as  surprist;.     "  So 


miL TER  GOES  AWAY.  255 

grown  !  "  said  old  Sol.     "  So  improved !    And  y      not  filtered  ! 
fust  the  same  !  " 

"  Indeed  ! "  said  Florence. 

"  Ye — yes,"  returned  old  Sol,  rubbing  his  hands  slowly, 
and  considering  the  matter  half  aloud,  as  something  pensive 
in  the  bright  eyes  looking  at  him  arrested  his  attention. 
"  Yes,  that  expression  was  in  the  younger  face  too  !  " 

"You  remember  me,"  said  Florence  with  a  smile,  "and 
what  a  little  creature  I  was  then  ?  " 

"  My  dear  young  lady,"  returned  the  Instrument-maker, 
"  how  could  I  forget  you,  often  as  I  have  thought  of  you  and 
heard  of  you  since  !  At  the  very  moment,  indeed,  when  you 
came  in,  Wally  was  talking  about  you  to  me,  and  leaving  mes- 
sages for  you,  and — " 

"  Was  he  ?  "  said  Florence.  "  Thank  you,  Walter !  Oh 
thank  you,  Walter  !  I  was  afraid  you  might  be  going  away 
and  hardly  thinking  of  me  ;"  and  again  she  gave  him  her  little 
hand  so  freely  and  so  faithfully  that  Walter  held  it  for  some 
moments  in  his  own,  and  could  not  bear  to  let  it  go. 

Yet  Walter  did  not  hold  it  as  he  might  have  held  it  once, 
nor  did  its  touch  awaken  those  old  day-dreams  of  his  boyhood 
that  had  floated  past  him  sometimes  even  lately,  and  confused 
him  with  their  indistinct  and  broken  shapes.  The  purity  and 
innocence  of  her  endearing  manner,  and  its  perfect  trustful- 
ness, and  the  undisguised  regard  for  him  that  lay  so  deeply 
seated  in  her  constant  eyes,  and  glowed  upon  her  fair  face 
through  the  smile  that  shaded — for  alas  !  it  was  a  smile  too 
sad  to  brighten — it,  were  not  of  their  romantic  race.  They 
brought  back  to  his  thoughts  the  early  death-bed  he  had  seen 
her  tending,  and  the  love  the  child  had  borne  her  ;  and  on  the 
wings  of  such  remembrances  she  seemed  to  rise  up,  far  above 
his  idle  fancies,  into  clearer  and  serener  air. 

"  I — I  am  afraid  I  must  call  you  Walter's  Uncle,  Sir,"  said 
Florence  to  the  old  man,  "  if  you'll  let  me." 

"  My  dear  young  lady,"  cried  old  Sol.  "  Let  you  !  Good 
gracious  ! " 

"  We  always  knew  you  by  that  name,  and  talked  of  you," 
said  Florence,  glancing  round,  and  sighing  gently.  "The 
nice  old  parlor  !     Just  the  same  !     How  well  I  recollect  it ! " 

Old  Sol  looked  first  at  her,  then  at  his  nephew,  and  then 
rubbed  his  hands,  and  rubbed  his  spectacles,  and  said  below 
his  breath,  "  Ah  !  time,  time,  time  !  " 

There  was  a  short  silence  ;  during  which  Susan  Nipper 
skilfully  impounded   two  extra  cups  and  saucers  from  the 


,5$„  DOME EY  AND  SON. 

cupboard,  and  awaited  the  drawing  of  the  tea  with  a  thoughtful 
air. 

"  I  want  to  tell  Walter's  Uncle,"  said  Florence,  laying  nef 
hand  timidly  upon  the  old  man's  as  it  rested  on  the  table,  to 
bespeak  his  attention,  "  something  that  I  am  anxious  about. 
He  is  going  to  be  left  alone,  and  if  he  will  allow  me — not  to 
take  Walter's  place,  for  that  I  couldn't  do,  but  to  be  his  true 
friend  and  help  him  if  I  ever  can  while  Walter  is  away,  I  shall 
be  very  much  obliged  to  him  indeed.  Will  you  ?  May  I, 
Walter's  Uncle  t " 

The  Instrument-maker,  without  speaking,  put  her  hand  to 
his  lips,  and  Susan  Nipper,  leaning  back  with  her  arms  crossed, 
in  the  chair  of  presidency  into  which  she  had  voted  herself, 
bit  one  end  of  her  bonnet  strings,  and  heaved  a  gentle  sigh  as 
she  looked  up  at  the  skylight. 

"  You  will  let  me  come  to  see  you,"  said  Florence,  "  when 
I  can  ;  and  you  will  tell  me  everything  about  yourself  and  Wal- 
ter ;  and  you  will  have  no  secrets  from  Susan  when  she  comes 
and  I  do  not,  but  will  confide  in  us,  and  trust  us,  and  rely  upon 
us.  And  you'll  try  to  let  us  be  a  comfort  to  you.  W^ill  you, 
Walter's  Uncle  ?  " 

The  sweet  face  looking  into  his,  the  gently  pleading  eyes, 
the  soft  voice,  and  the  light  touch  on  his  arm  made  the  more 
•winning  by  a  child's  respect  and  honor  for  his  age,  that  gave  to 
all  an  air  of  graceful  doubt  and  modest  hesitation— these,  and 
her  natural  earnestness,  so  overcame  the  poor  old  Instrument- 
maker,  that  he  only  answered  : 

"  Wally !  say  a  word  for  me,  my  dear.      I'm  very  grateful." 

"  No,  Walter,"  returned  Florence  with  her  quiet  smile. 
"  Say  nothing  for  him,  if  you  please.  I  understand  him  very 
well,  and  we  must  learn  to  talk  together  without  you,  deal 
Walter." 

The  regretful  tone  in  which  she  said  these  latter  words, 
touched  Walter  more  than  all  the  rest. 

"  Miss  Florence,"  he  replied,  with  an  efTort  to  recover  the 
cheerful  manner  he  had  preserved  while  talking  with  his  uncle, 
"  I  know  no  more  than  my  uncle,  what  to  say  in  acknowledg- 
ment of  such  kindness,  I  am  sure.  But  what  could  I  say,  after 
all,  if  I  had  the  power  of  talking  for  an  hour,  except  that  it  is 
like  you  }  " 

Susan  Nipper  began  upon  a  new  part  of  her  bonnet  string, 
and  nodded  at  the  skylight,  in  approval  of  the  sentiment 
txpressed. 

"  Qh  1  but  Walter,"  s»i4  Flpr^nce,  "there  U  something  thu 


H'AL  TER  GOES  AtVAY.  2^1 

I  wish  to  say  to  you  before  you  go  away,  and  you  must  call  me 
Florence,  if  you  please,  and  not  speak  like  a  stranger." 

'*  Like  a  stranger  !  "  returned  Walter.  "  No.  I  couldn't 
speak  so.     I  am  sure,  at  least,  I  couldn't  feel  like  one." 

"  Ay,  but  that  is  not  enough,  and  is  not  what  I  mean.  For, 
Walter,"  added  Florence,  bursting  into  tears,  "he  liked  you 
very  much,  and  said  before  he  died  that  he  was  fond  of  you, 
and  said  '  Remember  Walter  ! '  and  if  you'll  be  a  brother  to  me, 
Walter,  now  that  he  is  gone  and  I  have  none  on  earth,  I'll  be 
your  sister  all  my  life,  and  think  of  you  like  one  wherever  we 
may  be  !  This  is  what  I  wished  to  say,  dear  Walter,  but  I 
cannot  say  it  as  I  would,  because  my  heart  is  full." 

And  in  its  fulness  and  its  sweet  simplicity,  she  held  out 
both  her  hands  to  him.  Walter  taking  them,  stooped  down 
and  touched  the  tearful  face  that  neither  shrunk  nor  turned 
away,  nor  reddened  as  he  did  so,  but  looked  up  at  him  with 
confidence  and  truth.  In  that  one  moment,  every  shadow  of 
doubt  or  agitation  passed  away  from  Walter's  soul.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  he  responded  to  her  innocent  appeal,  beside  the 
dead  child's  bed:  and,  in  the  solemn  presence  he  had  seen 
there,  pledged  himself  to  cherish  and  protect  her  very  image, 
in  his  banishment,  with  brotherly  regard  ;  to  garner  up  her 
simple  faith,  inviolate  ;  and  hold  himself  degraded  if  he  breathed 
upon  it  any  thought  that  was  not  in  her  own  breast  when  she 
gave  it  to  him. 

Susan  Nipper,  who  had  bitten  both  her  bonnet  strings  at 
once,  and  imparted  a  great  deal  of  private  emotion  to  the 
skylight,  during  this  transaction,  now  changed  the  subject  by 
inquiring  who  took  milk  and  who  took  sugar;  and  being 
enlightened  on  these  points,  poured  out  the  tea.  They  all  four 
gathered  socially  about  the  little  table  and  took  tea  under  that 
young  lady's  active  superintendence ;  and  the  presence  of 
Florence  in  the  back  parlor,  brightened  the  Tartar  frigate  on 
the  wall. 

Half  an  hour  ago  Walter,  for  his  life,  would  have  hardly 
called  her  by  her  name.  But  he  could  do  so  now  when  she 
entreated  him.  He  could  think  of  her  being  there,  without  a 
lurking  misgiving  that  it  would  have  been  better  if  she  had  not 
come.  He  could  calmly  think  how  beautiful  she  was,  how  full 
of  promise,  what  a  home  some  happy  man  would  find  in  such 
a  heart  one  day.  He  could  reflect  upon  his  own  place  in  that 
heart,  with  pride  ;  and  with  a  brave  determination,  if  not  to  de- 
serve it— he  still  thought  that  far  above  him— never  to  deserve 
it  less. 


^5^  DOMBEY  AATD  SCAT. 

Some  fairy  influence  must  surely  have  hovered  round  the 
hands  of  Susan  Nipper  when  she  made  the  tea,  engendering 
the  tranquil  air  that  reigned  in  the  back  parlor  during  its  dis- 
cussion. Some  counter-influence  must  surely  have  hovered 
round  the  hands  of  Uncle  Sol's  chronometer,  and  moved  them 
faster  than  the  Tarter  frigate  ever  went  before  the  wind.  Be 
this  as  it  may,  the  visitors  had  a  coach  in  waiting  at  a  quiet 
corner  not  far  off;  and  the  chronometer,  on  being  incidentally 
referred  to,  gave  such  a  posilive  opinion  that  it  had  been  wait- 
ing a  long  time,  that  it  was  impossible  to  doubt  the  fact, 
especially  when  stated  on  such  unimpeachable  authority.  If 
Uncle  Sol  had  been  going  to  be  hanged  by  his  own  time,  he 
never  would  have  allowed  that  the  chronometer  was  too  fast, 
by  the  least  fraction  of  a  second. 

Florence  at  parting  recapitulated  to  the  old  man  all  that  she 
had  said  before,  and  bound  him  to  their  compact.  Uncle  Sol 
attended  her  lovingly  to  the  legs  of  the  Wooden  Midshipman, 
and  there  resigned  her  to  Walter,  who  was  ready  to  escort  her 
and  Susan  Nipper,  to  the  coach. 

"  Walter,"  said  Florence  by  the  way,  "  I  have  been  afraid 
to  ask  before  your  uncle.  Do  you  think  you  will  be  absent 
very  long  ? " 

"  Indeed,"  said  Walter,  "  I  don't  know,  I  fear  so.  Mr. 
Pombey  signified  as  much,  I  thought,  when  he  appointed  me." 

"  Is  it  a  favor,  Walter  ? "  inquired  Florence,  after  a  mo- 
ment's hesitation,  and  looking  anxiously  in  his  face. 

"  The  appointment  "i  "  returned  Walter. 

"  Yes." 

Walter  would  have  given  anything  to  have  answered  in  the 
affirmative,  but  his  face  answered  before  his  lips  could  and 
Florence  was  too  attentive  to  it  not  to  understand  its  reply. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  have  scarcely  been  a  favorite  with  Papa," 
she  said,  timidly. 

"  There  is  no  reason,"  replied  Walter,  smiling,  "  why  I 
should  be." 

"  No  reason,  Walter  !  " 

"  There  rcas  no  reason,"  said  Walter,  understanding  what 
she  meant.  "  There  are  many  people  employed  in  the  house. 
Between  Mr.  Dombey  and  a  young  man  like  me  there's  a  wide 
space  of  separation.  If  I  do  my  duty,  I  do  what  I  ought,  and 
do  no  more  than  all  the  rest." 

Had  Florence  any  misgiving  of  which  she  was  hardly 
conscious :  any  misgiving  that  had  sprung  into  an  indistinct 
and  undefined  existence  since  that  recent  night  when  she  had 


WALTER  GOES  AWAY 


m 


gone  down  to  her  father's  room :  that  Walter's  accidental 
interest  in  her,  and  early  knowledge  of  her,  might  liave  involved 
him .  in  that  powerful  displeasure  and  dislike  ?  Had  Walter 
any  such  idea,  or  any  sudden  thought  that  it  was  in  her  mind 
at  that  moment  ?  Neither  of  them  hinted  at  it.  Neither  of 
them  spoke  at  all,  for  some  short  time.  Susan,  walking  on  the 
other  side  of  Walter,  eyed  them  both  sharply  ;  and  certainly 
Miss  Nipper's  thoughts  travelled  in  that  direction,  and  very 
confidently  too. 

"  You  may  come  back  very  soon,"  said  Florence,  "  perha^b, 
Walter." 

"  I  may  come  back,"  said  Walter,  "  an  old  man,  and  find 
you  an  old  lady.     But  I  hope  for  better  things." 

"  Papa,"  said  Florence,  after  a  moment,  "  will — will  recover 
from  his  grief,  and — speak  more  freely  to  me  one  day,  perhaps  ; 
and  if  he  should,  I  will  tell  him  how  much  I  wish  to  see  you 
back  again,  and  ask  him  to  recall  you  for  my  sake." 

There  was  a  touching  modulation  in  these  words  about  her 
father,  that  Walter  understood  too  well. 

The  coach  being  close  at  hand,  he  would  have  left  her  with- 
out speaking,  for  now  he  felt  what  parting  was  ;  but  Florence 
held  his  hand  when  she  was  seated,  and  then  he  found  there 
was  a  little  packet  in  her  own. 

"  Walter,"  she  said,  looking  full  upon  him  with  her  affec- 
tionate eyes,  "  like  you,  I  hope  for  better  things.  I  will  pray 
for  them,  and  believe  that  they  will  arrive.  I  made  this  little 
gift  for  Paul.  Pray  take  it  with  my  love,  and  do  not  look  at  ir 
until  you  are  gone  away.  And  now,  God  bless  you,  Walter  I 
neve/forget  me.     You  are  my  brother,  dear  !  " 

He  was  glad  that  Susan  Nipper  came  between  them,  or  he 
might  have  left  her  with  a  sorrowful  remembrance  of  him.  He 
was  glad  too  that  she  did  not  look  out  of  the  coach  again,  but 
waved  the  little  hand  to  him  instead,  as  long  as  he  could  see  it. 
In  spite  of  her  request,  he  could  not  help  opening  the  packet 
that  night  when  he  went  to  bed.  It  was  a  little  purse  :  and 
there  was  money  in  it. 

Bright  rose  the  sun  next  morning,  from  his  absence  in 
strange  countries,  and  up  rose  Walter  with  it  to  receive  the 
Captain,  who  was  already  at  the  door :  having  turned  out 
earlier  than  was  necessar}^,  in  order  to  get  under  weigh  while 
Mrs.  MacStinger  was  yet  slumbering.  The  Captin  pretended 
to  be  in  tip-top  spirits,  and  brought  a  ver>'  smoky  tongue  in 
t^G  of  the  pockets  of  the  broad  blue  coat  for  breakfast. 

"And,  Wal'r,"  said  the  Captain,  when  they  took  their  seats 


tCo  D6MBEY  AND  SON: 

at  tabiC,  "  if  yOUi  uncle's  the  man  I  think  him,  he'll  brfng  out 
the  last  bottle  of  the  Madeira  on  the  present  occasion." 

"No,  no,  Ned,"  returned  the  old  man,  "No  !  That  shall 
be  opened  when  Walter  comes  home  again." 

"  Well  said  !  "  cried  the  Captain.     "  Hear  him  !  " 

"There  it  lies,"  said  Sol  Gills,  "down  in  the  little  cellar, 
covered  with  dirt  and  cobwebs.  There  may  be  dirt  and  cob' 
webs  over  you  and  me  perhaps,  Ned,  before  it  sees  the  light." 

"  Hear  him  !  "  cried  the  Captain,  "  Good  morality!  Wal'r, 
*ny  lad.  Train  up  a  fig-tree  in  the  way  it  should  go,  and 
when  you  are  old  sit  under  the  shade  on  it.  Overhaul  the — • 
Well,"  said  the  Captain  on  second  thoughts,  "  I  ain't  quite  cer- 
tain where  that's  to  be  found,  but  when  found,  make  a  note  of. 
Sol  Gills,  heave  a-head  again  !" 

"But  there,  or  somewhere,  it  shall  lie,  Ned,  until  Wally 
comes  back  to  claim  it,"  said  the  old  man.  "  That's  all  I 
meant  to  say." 

"And  well  said  too,"  returned  the  Captain;  "and  if  we 
three  don't  crack  that  bottle  in  company,  I'll  give  you  two  leave 
to  drink  my  allowance  !  " 

Notwithstanding  the  Captain's  excessive  joviality,  he  made 
but  a  poor  hand  at  the  smoky  tongue,  though  he  tried  very 
hard,  when  anybody  looked  at  him,  to  appear  as  if  he  were 
eating  with  a  vast  appetite.  He  was  terribly  afraid,  likewise, 
of  being  left  alone  with  either  uncle  or  nephew  ;  appearing  to 
consider  that  his  only  chance  of  safety  as  to  keeping  up  ap- 
pearances, was  in  their  being  always  three  together.  This  ter- 
ror on  the  part  of  the  Captain,  reduced  him  to  such  ingenious 
evasions  as  running  to  the  door,  when  Solomon  went  to  put 
his  coat  on,  under  pretence  of  having  seen  an  extiaordinary 
hackney-coach  pass :  and  darting  out  into  the  road  when 
Walter  went  up  stairs  to  take  leave  of  the  lodgers,  on  a  feint 
of  smelling  fire  in  a  neighboring  chimney.  These  artifices 
Captain  Cuttle  deemed  inscrutable  by  any  uninspired  observer. 

Walter  was  coming  down  from  his  parting  expedition  up 
stairs,  and  was  crossing  the  shop  to  go  back  to  the  little  parlor, 
when  he  saw  a  faded  face  he  knew,  looking  in  at  the  door,  and 
darted  towards  it. 

"  Mr.  Carker ! ''  cried  Walter,  pressing  the  hand  of  John 
Carker  the  Junior.  "  Pray  come  in  !  Tiiis  is  kind  of  you,  to 
be  here  so  early  to  say  good-by  to  me.  Vou  knew  how  glad 
it  would  make  me  to  sliake  hands  with  you  once,  before  going 
away.  I  cannot  say  how  glad  I  am  to  have  this  opportunity, 
Pray  come  in." 


WALTEI?  GOES  AWAY.  26l 

"It  is  not  likely  that  we  may  ever  meet  again,  Walter," 
returned  the  other,  gently  resisting  his  invitation,  "and  I  am 
glad  of  this  opportunity  too.  I  may  venture  to  speak  to  you, 
and  to  take  you  by  the  liand,  on  the  eve  of  separation.  I  shall 
not  have  to  resist  your  frank  approaches,  Walter,  any  more." 

There  was  a  melancholy  in  his  smile  as  he  said  it,  that 
showed  he  had  found  some  company  and  friendship  for  his 
thoughts  even  in  that. 

"  Ah,  Mr.  Carker  !  "  returned  Walter,  "  Why  did  you  re- 
sist them  ?  You  could  have  done  me  nothing  but  good,  I  am 
very  sure." 

He  shook  his  head.  "If  there  were  any  good,"  he  said, 
"  I  could  do  on  this  earth,  I  would  do  it,  Walter,  for  you. 
The  sight  of  you  from  day  to  day,  has  been  at  once  happiness 
and  remorse  to  me.  But  the  pleasure  has  outweighed  the 
pain.     I  know  that,  now,  by  knowing  what  I  lose." 

"Come  in,  Mr.  Carker,  and  make  acquaintance  with  my 
good  old  uncle,"  urged  Walter.  "  I  have  often  talked  to  him 
about  you,  and  he  will  be  glad  to  tell  you  all  he  hears  from 
me.  I  have  not,"  said  Walter,  noticing  his  hesitation,  and 
speaking  with  embarrassment  himself ;  "  I  have  not  told  him 
anything  about  our  last  conversation,  Mr.  Carker;  not  even 
him,  believe  me." 

The  gray  Junior  pressed  his  hand,  and  tears  rose  in  his  eyes. 

"  If  I  ever  make  acquaintance  with  him,  Walter,"  he  re- 
turned, "  it  will  be  that  I  may  hear  tidings  of  you.  Rely  on 
my  not  wronging  your  forbearance  and  consideration.  It  would 
be  to  wrong  it,  not  to  tell  him  all  the  truth,  before  I  sought  a 
word  of  confidence  from  him.  But  I  have  no  friend  or  ac- 
quaintance except  you:  and  even  for  your  sake,  am  little 
likely  to  make  any." 

"  I  wish,"  said  Walter,  "  you  had  suffered  me  to  be  your 
friend  indeed.  I  always  wished  it,  Mr.  Carker,  as  you  know; 
but  never  half  so  much  as  now,  when  we  are  going  to  part." 

"  It  is  enough,"  replied  the  other,  "  that  you  have  been  the 
friend  of  my  own  breast,  and  that  when  I  have  avoided  you 
most  my  heart  inclined  the  most  towards  you,  and  was  fullest 
of  you.     Walter,  good-by  !  " 

"  Good-by,  Mr.  Carker.  Heaven  be  wdth  you,  sir  !  "  cried 
Walter,  with  emotion. 

"  If,"  said  the  other,  retaining  his  hand  while  he  spoke ; 
"  if  when  you  come  back,  you  miss  me  from  my  old  corner, 
and  should  hear  from  any  one  where  I  am  lying,  come  and  look 
upon  my  grave.     Think  that  X  might  haye  beeii  as  honest  and 


262  DOMBEY  AA^D  SON. 

as  happy  as  you  !  And  let  me  think,  when  I  know  my  time 
is  coming  on,  that  some  one  like  my  former  self  may  stand 
there,  for  a  moment,  and  remember  me  with  pity  and  forgive- 
ness !     Walter  good-by  !  " 

His  figure  crejit  like  a  shadow  down  the  bright,  sun-lighted 
street,  so  cheerful  yet  so  solemn  in  the  early  summer  morning; 
and  slowly  passed  away. 

The  relentless  chronometer  at  last  announced  that  Walter 
must  turn  his  back  upon  the  Wooden  Midshipman  :  and  away 
they  went,  himself,  his  uncle,  and  the  Captain,  in  a  hackney- 
coach  to  a  wharf,  where  they  were  to  take  steam-boat  for  some 
Reach  down  the  river,  the  name  of  which,  as  the  Captain  gave 
it  out,  was  a  hopeless  mystery  to  the  ears  of  landsmen.  Ar- 
rived at  this  Reach  (whither  the  ship  had  repaired  by  last 
night's  tide),  they  were  boarded  by  various  excited  watermen, 
and  among  others  by  a  dirty  Cyclops  of  the  Captain's  acquaint- 
ance, who  with  his  one  eye,  had  made  the  Captain  out  some  mile 
and  a  half  off,  and  had  been  exchanging  unintelligible  roars 
with  him  ever  since.  Becoming  the  lawful  prize  of  this  per- 
sonage, who  was  frightfully  hoarse  and  constitutionally  in  want 
of  shaving,  they  were  all  three  put  aboard  the  Son  and  Heir. 
And  the  Son  and  Heir  was  in  a  pretty  state  of  confusion,  with 
sails  lying  all  bedraggled  on  the  wet  decks,  loose  ropes  trip- 
ping people  up,  men  in  red  shirts  running  barefooted  to  and 
fro,  casks  blockading  every  foot  of  space,  and,  in  the  thickest 
of  the  fray,  a  black  cook  in  a  black  caboose  up  to  his  eyes  in 
vegetables  and  blinded  with  smoke. 

The  Captain  immediately  drew  Walter  into  a  corner,  and 
with  a  great  effort,  that  made  his  face  very  red,  pulled  up  the 
silver  watch,  which  was  so  big,  and  so  tight  in  his  jDocket,  that 
it  came  out  like  a  bung. 

"  Wal'r,"  said  the  Captain,  handing  it  over,  and  shaking  him 
heartily  by  the  hand,  "  a  parting  gift,  my  lad.  Put  it  back  half 
an  hour  every  morning,  and  about  another  quarter  towards 
the  arternoon,  and  it's  a  watch  that'll  do  3-ou  credit." 

"  Captain  Cuttle !  I  couldn't  think  of  it !  "  cried  Walter, 
detaining  him,  for  he  was  runn' ng  away.  "  Pray  take  it  back. 
I  have  one  already." 

"Then,  Wal'r,"  said  the  Captain,  suddenly  diving  into  one 
of  his  pockets  and  bringing  up  the  two  teaspoons  and  tlie 
sugar-tongs,  with  which  he  had  armed  himself  to  meet  such 
an  objection,  "Take  this  here  trifle  of  plate,  instead." 

"  No,  no,  I  couldn't  indeed  !  "  cried  Walter,  "  a  thousand 
thanks  1     Don't  throw  them  away,  Captain  Cuttle  I "  for  the 


MR.  DOMBEY  GOES  UJ'ON  A  JOURiYEY.  263 

Captain  was  about  to  jerk  them  over-board,  "  They'll  be  of 
much  more  use  to  you  than  me.  Give  me  your  stick.  I  have 
often  thought  that  I  should  like  to  have  it.  There !  Good- 
by,  Captain  Cuttle  !  Take  care  of  my  uncle  !  Uncle  Sol,  God 
bless  you  !  " 

They  were  over  the  side  in  the  confusion,  before  Walter 
caught  another  glimpse  of  either  ;  and  when  he  ran  up  to  the 
stern,  and  looked  after  them,  he  saw  his  uncle  hanging  down 
liis  head  in  the  boat,  and  Captain  Cuttle  rapping  him  on  the 
back  with  the  great  silver  watch  (it  must  have  been  very  pain- 
ful), and  gesticulating  hopefully  with  the  teaspoons  and  sugar- 
tongs.  Catching  sight  of  Walter,  Captain  Cuttle  dropped  the 
property  into  the  bottom  of  the  boat  with  perfect  unconcern, 
being  evidently  oblivious  of  its  existence,  and  pulling  off  the 
glazed  hat  hailed  him  lustily.  The  glazed  hat  made  quite  a 
show  in  the  sun  with  its  glistening,  and  the  Captain  continued 
to  wave  it  until  he  could  be  seen  no  longer.  Then  the  confusion 
on  board,  which  had  been  rapidly  increasing,  reached  its  height  ; 
two  or  three  other  boats  went  away  with  a  cheer ;  the  sails  shone 
bright  and  full  above,  as  Walter  watched  them  spread  their  sur- 
face to  the  favorable  breeze ;  the  water  flew  in  sparkles  from 
the  prow ;  and  off  upon  her  voyage  went  the  Son  and  Heir,  as 
hopefully  and  trippingly  as  many  another  son  and  heir,  gone 
down,  had  started  on  his  way  before  her. 

Day  after  day,  Old  Sol  and  Captain  Cuttle  kept  her  reckon- 
ing in  the  little  back  parlor  and  worked  out  her  course,  with  the 
chart  spread  before  them  on  the  round  table.  At  night,  when 
Old  Sol  climbed  up  stairs,  so  lonely,  to  the  attic  where  it  some- 
times blew  great  guns,  he  looked  up  at  the  stars  and  listened  to 
the  wind,  and  kept  a  longer  watch  than  would  have  fallen  to 
his  lot  on  board  tlie  ship.  The  last  bottle  of  the  old  Madeira, 
which  had  had  its  cruising  days,  and  known  its  dangers  of  the 
deep,  lay  silently  beneath  its  dust  and  cobwebs,  in  the  mean- 
while, undisturbed. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

MR.  DOMBEY  GOES  UPON  A  JOURNEY. 

"  Mr.  Dombey,  Sir,"  said  Major  Bagstock,  "  Joey  B.  is  not 
in  general  a  man  of  sentiment,  for  Joseph  is  tough.  But  Joe 
has  his  feelings,  Sir,  and  when  th«y  are   awakened — Damme, 


«64  DoMbEY  Ax\'D  SON: 

Mr.  Dombey,    cried  the  Major  with  sudden  ferocity.  "  this  U 
weakness,  and  I  won't  submit  to  it !  " 

Major  Bagstock  delivered  himself  of  these  expressions  on 
receiving  Mr.  Dombey  as  his  guest  at  the  head  of  his  own  stair- 
case in  Princess's  Place.  Mr.  Dombey  had  come  to  breakfast 
with  the  Major,  previous  to  their  setting  forth  on  their  trip  :  and 
the  ill-starred  Native  had  already  undergone  a  world  of  misery 
arising  out  of  the  muffins,  while  in  connection  with  the  general 
question  of  boiled  eggs,  life  was  a  burden  to  him. 

"  It  is  not  for  an  old  soldier  of  the  Bagstock  breed,"  observed 
the  Major,  relapsing  into  a  mild  state,  "  to  deliver  himself  up, 
a  prey  to  his  own  emotions  ;  but — damme.  Sir,"  cried  the  Major, 
in  another  spasm  of  ferocity,  "  I  condole  with  you  !  " 

The  Major's  purple  visage  deepened  in  its  hue,  and  the 
Major's  lobster  eyes  stood  out  in  bolder  relief,  as  he  shook 
Mr.  Dombey  by  the  hand,  imparting  to  that  peaceful  action 
as  defiant  a  character  as  if  it  had  been  the  prelude  to  his  imme- 
diately boxing  Mr.  Dombey  for  a  thousand  pounds  aside  and 
the  championship  of  England.  With  a  rotatory  motion  of  his 
head,  and  a  wheeze  very  like  the  cough  of  a  horse,  the  Major 
then  conducted  his  visitor  to  the  sitting-room,  and  there  wel- 
comed him  (having  now  composed  his  feelings)  with  the  freedom 
and  frankness  of  a  travelling  companion. 

"  Dombey,"  said  the  Major,  "  I'm  glad  to  see  you.  I'm 
proud  to  see  you.  There  are  not  many  men  in  Europe  to  whom 
J.  Bagstock  would  say  that — for  Josh  is  blunt.  Sir  :  it's  his 
nature — but  Joe  B.  is  proud  to  see  you,  Dombey." 

"  Major,"  returned  Mr.  Dombey,  "  you  are  very  obliging." 

"No,  Sir,"  said  the  Major,  "Devil  a  bit !  That's  not  my 
character.  If  that  had  been  Joe's  character,  Joe  might  have 
been,  by  this  time,  Lieutenant-General  Sir  Joseph  Bagstock, 
K.C.B.,  and  might  have  received  you  in  very  different  quarters. 
You  don't  know  old  Joe  yet,  I  find.  But  this  occasion,  being 
special,  is  a  source  of  pride  to  me.  By  the  Lord,  Sir,"  said  the, 
Major  resolutely,  "  it's  an  honor  to  me  !  " 

Mr.  Dombey,  in  his  estimation  of  himsei'f  and  his  money, 
.felt  that  this  was  very  true,  and  therefore  did  not  dispute  the 
point.  But  the  instinctive  recognition  of  such  a  truth  by  the 
Major,  and  his  plain  avowal  of  it,  were  very  agreeable.  It  was 
a  confirmation  to  Mr.  Dombey,  if  he  had  required  any,  of  his 
not  being  mistaken  in  the  Major.  It  was  an  assurance  to  hira 
that  his  power  extended  beyond  his  own  immediate  sphere  ; 
and  that  the  Major  as  an  ofticer  and  a  gentleman,  had  a  no  less 
becoming  sense  of  it,  than  the  beadle  of  the  Royal  Exchange. 


MR.  DOMBEY  GOES  UPON  A  JOU!^!NEY.  265 

And  if  it  were  ever  consolatory  to  know  this,  or  the  like  of 
this,  it  was  consolatory  then,  when  tlie  impotence  of  his  will, 
the  instability  of  his  hopes,  the  feebleness  of  wealth,  had  been 
so  direfully  impressed  upon  him.  What  could  it  do,  his  boy 
had  asked  him.  Sometimes,  thinking  of  the  baby  question,  he 
could  hardly  forbear  inquiring,  himself,  what  could  it  do  indeed : 
what  had  it  done  ? 

But  these  were  lonely  thoughts,  bred  late  at  night  in  the 
sullen  despondency  and  gloom  of  his  retirement,  and  pride 
easily  found  its  re-assurance  in  many  testimonies  to  the  truth, 
as  unimpeachable  and  precious  as  the  Major's.  Mr.  Dombey, 
in  his  friendlessness,  inclined  to  the  Major.  It  cannot  be  said 
that  he  warmed  towards  him,  but  he  thawed  a  little.  The 
Major  had  had  some  part — and  not  too  much — in  the  days  by 
the  seaside.  He  was  a  man  of  the  world,  and  knew  some  great 
people.  He  talked  much,  and  told  stories  ;  and  Mr.  Dombey 
was  disposed  to  regard  him  as  a  choice  spirit  who  shone  in 
society,  and  who  had  not  that  poisonous  ingredient  of  poverty 
with  which  choice  spirits  in  general  are  too  much  adulterated. 
His  station  was  undeniable.  Altogether  the  Major  was  a  credit- 
able companion,  well  accustomed  to  a  life  of  leisure,  and  to 
such  places  as  that  they  were  about  to  visit,  and  having  an  air 
of  gentlemanly  ease  about  him  that  mixed  well  enough  with  his 
own  City  character,  and  did  not  compete  with  it  at  all.  If  Mr. 
Dombey  had  any  lingering  idea  that  the  Major,  as  a  man 
accustomed,  in  the  way  of  his  calling,  to  make  light  of  the  ruth- 
less hand  that  had  lately  crushed  his  hopes,  might  unconsciously 
impart  some  useful  philosophy  to  him,  and  scare  away  his  weak 
regrets,  he  hid  it  from  himself,  and  left  it  lying  at  the  bottom 
of  his  pride,  unexamined. 

"  Where  is  my  scoundrel !  "  said  the  Major,  looking  wrath- 
fully  round  the  room. 

The  Native,  who  had  no  particular  name,  but  answered  to 
any  vituperative  epithet,  presented  himself  instantly  at  the 
door  and  ventured  to  come  no  nearer. 

"  You  villain !  "  said  the  choleric  Major,  "  where's  the 
breakfast  ?  " 

The  dark  servant  disappeared  in  search  of  it,  and  was 
quickly  heard  reascending  the  stairs  in  such  a  tremulous  state, 
that  the  plates  and  dishes  on  the  tray  he  carried,  trembling 
sympathetically  as  he  came,  rattled  again,  all  the  way  up. 

"  Dombey,"  said  the  Major,  glancing  at  the  Native  as  he 
arranged  the  table,  and  encouraging  him  with  an  awful  shake 
of  his  fist  when  he  upset  a  spoon,  *•  here  is  a  devilled  gvill,  a 


766  DOMPEY  AND  r.?N. 

Ravory  pie,  a  dish  of  kidneys,  and  so  forth.  Pray  sit  down, 
Old  Joe  can  i^ive  you  nothing  but  camp  fare,  you  see." 

"  Very  excellent  fare,  Major,"  replied  his  guest;  and  not 
in  mere  politeness  either;  for  the  Major  always  took  the  best 
possible  care  of  himself,  and  indeed  ate  rather  more  of  rich 
meats  than  was  good  for  him,  insomuch  that  his  Imperial  com- 
plexion was  mainly  referred  by  the  faculty  to  that  circum- 
stance. 

"  You  have  been  looking  over  the  way,  sir,"  observed  the 
Major.     "  Have  you  seen  our  friend  ?  " 

"  You  mean  Miss  Tox,"  retorted  Mr.  Dombey.     "  No." 

"Charming  woman,  Sir,"  said  the  Major,  with  a  fat  laugh 
rising  in  his  short  throat,  and  nearly  suttocating  him. 

"  Miss  Tox  is  a  very  good  sort  of  person,  I  believe,"  replied 
Mr.  Dombey. 

The  haughty  coldness  of  the  reply  seemed  to  afford  Major 
Bagstock  infinite  delight.  He  swelled  and  swelled,  exceed- 
ingly :  and  even  laid  down  his  knife  and  fork  for  a  moment,  to 
rub  his  hands. 

*'  Old  Joe,  Sir,"  said  the  Major,  "  was  a  bit  of  a  favorite  in 
that  quarter  once.  But  Joe  has  had  his  day.  J.  Bagstock  is 
extinguished — outrivalled — floored,  Sir.  I  tell  you  what,  Dom- 
bey." The  Major  paused  in  his  eating,  and  looked  mysteri- 
ously indignant.     "  That's  a  de-vilish  ambitious  woman.  Sir." 

Mr.  Dombey  said  "Indeed?"  with  frigid  indifference: 
mingled  perhaps  with  some  contemptuous  incredulity  as  to  Miss 
Tox  having  the  presumption  to  harbor  such  a  superior  quality. 

"  That  woman.  Sir,"  said  the  Major,  "  is,  in  her  way,  a 
Lucifer.  Joey  B.  has  had  his  day,  Sir,  but  he  keeps  his  eyes. 
He  sees,  does  Joe.  His  Royal  Highness  the  late  Duke  of 
York  observed  of  Joey,  at  a  levee,  that  he  saw." 

The  Major  accompanied  this  with  such  a  look,  and,  between 
eating,  drinking,  hot  tea,  devilled  grill,  muffins,  and  meaning, 
was  altogether  so  swollen  and  inflamed  about  the  head,  that 
even  Mr.  Dombey  showed  some  anxiety  for  him. 

"That  ridiculous  old  spectacle.  Sir,"  pursued  the  Major, 
**  aspires.     She  aspires  sky-high,  Sir.    Matrimonially,  Dombey." 

"  I  am  sorry  for  her,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  Don't  say  that,  Dombey,"  returned  the  Major  in  a  wariv- 
Ing  voice. 

"  Why  should  I  not.  Major  ?  "  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

The  Major  gave  no  answer  but  the  horse's  cough,  and  w^ent 
on  eating  vigorously. 

*'  She  has  taken  an  interest  in  your  household,"  said  the 


MR.  DOMBEY  GOES  UPOJV  A  JOURNEY.  267 

Major,  stopping  short  again,  "  and  has  been  a  frequent  visitof 
at  your  house  for  some  time  now." 

•*Yes,"  replied  Mr.  Dombey  with  great  stateliness,  "Miss 
Tox  was  originally  received  there,  at  the  time  of  Mrs.  Dombey's 
death,  as  a  friend  of  my  sister's  ;  and  being  a  well-behaved 
person,  and  showing  a  liking  for  the  poor  infant,  she  was  per- 
mitted— I  may  say  encouraged — to  repeat  her  visits  with  m}' 
sister,  and  gradually  to  occupy  a  kind  of  footing  of  familiarity 
in  the  family.  I  have,"  said  Mr.  Dombe}',  in  the  tone  of  a 
man  who  was  making  a  great  and  valuable  concession,  "  I 
have  a  respect  for  Miss  Tox.  She  has  been  so  obliging  as  to 
render  many  little  services  in  my  house  :  trifling  and  insignifi- 
cant services  perhaps,  Major,  but  not  to  be  disparaged  on  that 
account :  and  I  hope  I  have  had  the  good  fortune  to  be 
enabled  to  acknowledge  them  by  such  attention  and  notice  as 
it  has  been  in  my  power  to  bestow.  I  hold  myself  indebted  to 
Miss  Tox,  Major,"  added  Mr.  Dombey,  with  a  slight  wave  of 
his  hand,  "  for  the  pleasure  of  your  acquaintance." 

"  Dombey,"  said  the  Major,  warmly :  "  no  !  No,  Sir ! 
Joseph  Bagstock  can  never  permit  that  assertion  to  pass  uncon- 
tradicted. Your  knowledge  of  old  Joe,  Sir,  such  as  he  is,  and 
old  Joe's  knowledge  of  you,  Sir,  had  its  origin  in  a  noble  fel- 
low, Sir — in  a  great  creature,  Sir.  ■  Dombey !  "  said  the  Major, 
with  a  struggle  which  it  was  not  very  difficult  to  parade,  his 
whole  life  being  a  struggle  against  all  kinds  of  apoplectic  symp- 
toms, "  we  knew  each  other  through  your  boy." 

Mr.  Dombey  seemed  touched,  as  it  is  not  improbable  the 
Major  designed  he  should  be,  by  this  allusion.  He  looked 
down  and  sighed  :  and  the  Major,  rousing  himself,  fiercely, 
again  said,  in  reference  to  the  state  of  mind  into  which  he  felt 
himself  in  danger  of  falling,  that  this  was  weakness,  and  noth- 
ing should  induce  him  to  submit  to  it. 

"Our  friend  had  a  remote  connexion  with  that  event,"  said 
the  Major,  "  and  all  the  credit  that  belongs  to  her,  J.  B.  is  will- 
ing to  give  her.  Sir.  Notwithstanding  which.  Ma'am,"  he 
added,  raising  his  eyes  from  his  plate,  and  casting  them  across 
Princess's  Place,  to  where  Miss  Tox  was  at  that  moment  visible 
at  her  window  watering  her  flowers,  "you're  a  scheming  jade, 
Ma'am,  and  your  ambition  is  a  piece  of  mo  istrous  impudence. 
If  it  only  made  yourself  ridiculous.  Ma'am,"  said  the  Major 
rolling  his  head  at  the  unconscious  Miss  Tox,  while  his  start- 
ing eyes  appeared  to  make  a  leap  towards  her,  "  you  might  do 
that  to  your  heart's  content.  Ma'am,  without  any  objection,  I 
assure  you,  on  the  part  of  Bagstock."     Here  the  Major  laughed 


268  DOMBEY  AND  SOX: 

frightfully  up  in  the  tips  of  his  ears  and  in  the  veins  of  his 
head.  "  But  when,  ma'am,"  said  the  Major,  "  you  compromige 
other  people,  and  generous,  unsuspicious  people,  too,  as  a  re- 
payment for  their  condescension,  you  stir  the  blood  of  old  Joe 
in  his  body." 

"  Major,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  reddening,  "  I  hope  you  do  not 
hint  at  anything  so  absurd  on  the  part  of  Miss  Tox  as " 

"  Dombey,"  returned  the  Major,  "  I  hint  at  nothing.  But 
Joey  B.  has  lived  in  the  world,  sir  :  lived  in  the  world  with  his 
eyes  open,  sir,  and  his  ears  cocked  ;  and  Joe  tells  you,  Dom- 
bey, that  there's  a  de-vilish  artful  and  ambitious  woman  over 
the  way." 

Mr.  Dombey  involuntarily  glanced  over  the  way  ;  and  an 
angry  glance  he  sent  in  that  direction,  too. 

"  That's  all  on  such  a  subject  that  shall  pass  the  lips  of 
Joseph  Bagstock,"  said  the  Major,  firmly.  "  Joe  is  not  a  tale- 
bearer, but  there  are  times  when  he  must  speak,  when  he  will 
speak  ! — confound  your  arts,  ma'am,"  cried  the  Major,  again 
apostrophizing  his  fair  neighbor,  with  great  ire, — "  when  the 
provocation  is  too  strong  to  admit  of  his  remaining  silent." 

The  emotion  of  this  outbreak  threw  the  Major  into  a  par- 
oxysm of  horse's  coughs,  which  held  him  for  a  long  time.  On 
recovering,  he  added  : 

"  And  now,  Dombey,  as  you  have  invited  Joe — old  Joe,  who 
has  no  other  merit,  sir,  but  that  he  is  tough  and  hearty — to  be 
your  guest  and  guide  at  Leamington,  command  him  in  any  way 
you  please,  and  he  is  wholly  yours.  I  don't  know,  sir,"  said 
the  Major,  wagging  his  double  chin  with  a  jocose  air,  "what 
it  is  you  people  see  in  Joe  to  make  you  hold  him  in  such  great 
request,  all  of  you  ;  but  this  I  know,  sir,  that  if  he  wasn't  pretty 
tough,  and  obstinate  in  his  refusals,  you'd  kill  him  among  you 
with  your  invitations  and  so  forth,  in  double  quick  time." 

Mr.  Dombey,  in  a  few  words,  expressed  his  sense  of  the 
preference  he  received  over  those  other  distinguished  members 
of  society  who  were  clamoring  for  the  possession  of  Major  Bag- 
stock.  I3ut  the  Major  cut  him  short  by  giving  him  to  under- 
stand that  he  followed  his  own  inclinations,  and  that  they  had 
risen  up  in  a  body  and  said  with  one  accord,  "J.  B.  Dombey 
is  the  man  for  you  to  choose  as  a  friend." 

The  Major  being  by  this  time  in  a  state  of  repletion,  with 
essence  of  savory  pie  oozing  out  at  the  corner  of  his  eyes,  and 
devilled  grill  and  kidneys  tightening  his  cravat :  and  the  time 
moreover  approaching  for  the  departure  of  the  railway  train  to 
Birmingham,  by  which  they  were  to  leave  town  :  tl;e  Native  got 


Mk.  DOaIBEV  goes  upon-  a  JOUkNEY.  269 

him  into  his  great-coat  with  immense  difficulty,  and  buttoned 
him  up  until  his  face  looked  staring  and  gasping,  over  the  top 
of  that  garment,  as  if  he  were  in  a  barrel.  The  Native  then 
handed  him  separately,  and  with  a  decent  interval  between  each 
Bupply,  his  wash-leather  gloves,  his  thick  stick,  and  his  hat ; 
which  latter  article  the  Major  wore  with  a  rakish  air  on  one 
side  of  his  head,  by  way  of  toning  down  his  remarkable  visage. 
The  Native  had  previously  packed,  in  all  possible  and  impossi- 
ble parts  of  Mr,  Dombey's  chariot,  which  was  in  waiting,  an  un- 
usual quantity  of  carpet-bags  and  small  portmanteaus,  no  less 
apoplectic  in  appearance  than  the  Major  himself  :  and  having 
filled  his  own  pockets  with  Seltzer  water.  East  India  sherry, 
sandwiches,  shawls,  telescopes,  maps,  and  newspapers,  any  or 
all  of  which  light  baggage  the  Major  might  require  at  any  in- 
stant of  the  journey,  he  announced  that  everything  was  ready. 
To  complete  the  equipment  of  this  unfortunate  foreigner  (cur- 
rently believed  to  be  a  prince  in  his  own  country),  when  he  took 
his  seat  in  the  rumble  by  the  side  of  Mr.  Towlinson,  a  pile  of 
the  Major's  cloaks  and  great-coats  was  hurled  upon  him  by  the 
landlord,  who  aimed  at  him  from  the  pavement  with  those  great 
missiles  like  a  Titan,  and  so  covered  him  up,  that  he  proceeded 
in  a  living  tomb,  to  the  railroad  station. 

But  before  the  carriage  moved  away,  and  while  the  Native 
was  in  the  act  of  sepulture.  Miss  Tox  appearing  at  her  window, 
waved  a  lily-white  handkerchief.  Mr.  Dombey  received  this 
parting  salutation  very  coldly — very  coldly  even  for  him — and 
honoring  her  with  the  slightest  possible  inclination  of  his  head, 
leaned  back  in  the  carriage  with  a  very  discontented  look.  His 
marked  behavior  seemed  to  afford  the  Major  (who  was  all  po- 
liteness in  his  recognition  of  Miss  Tox)  unbounded  satisfaction; 
and  he  sat  for  a  long  time  afterwards,  leering,  and  choking,  like 
an  over-fed  Mephistopheles.  V^;  ,       ...  ■ 

During  the  bustle  of  preparation  at  the  railway,  Mr.  Dom- 
bey and  the  Major  walked  up  and  down  the  platform  side  by 
side  ;  the  former  taciturn  and  gloomy,  and  the  latter  entertain- 
ing him,  or  entertaining  himself,  with  a  variety  of  anecdotes  and 
reminiscences,  in  most  of  which  Joe  Bagstock  was  the  principal 
performer.  Neither  of  the  two  observed  that  in  the  course  of 
these  walks,  they  attracted  the  attention  of  a  working  man  who 
was  standing  near  the  engine,  and  who  touched  his  hat  every 
time  they  passed  ;  for  Mr.  Dombey  habitually  looked  over  the 
vulgar  herd,  not  at  them ;  and  the  Major  was  looking,  at  the 
time,  into  the  core  of  one  of  his  stories.  At  length,  however, 
this  man  stepped  before  them  as  they  turned  round,  and  pulling 


ijo 


DOMBKY  AND  SON. 


his  hat  off,  and  keeping  it  off,  clucked  his  head  to  Mr.  Donl- 
bey. 

"Beg  your  pardon.  Sir,"  said  the  man,  "but  I  hope  you're 
a  doin'  pretty  well,  Sir." 

He  was  dressed  in  a  canvas  suit  abundantly  besmeared  with 
coal-dust  and  oil,  and  had  cinders  in  his  whiskers,  and  a  smell 
of  half-slaked  ashes  all  over  him.  He  was  not  a  bad-looking 
fellow,  nor  even  what  could  be  fairly  called  a  dirt3'-looking  fel- 
'.ow,  in  spite  of  this  ;  and,  in  short,  he  was  Mr.  Toodle,  pro- 
fessionally clothed. 

"  I  shall  have  the  honor  of  stokin'  of  you  down.  Sir,"  said 
Mr.  Toodle.  "  Beg  your  pardon,  Sir.  I  hope  you  find  your- 
self a  coming  round  !  " 

Mr.  Dombey  looked  at  him,  in  return  for  his  tone  of  interr 
est,  as  if  a  man  like  that  would  make  his  very  eyesight  dirty. 

'"  Scuse  the  liberty,  Sir,"  said  Toodle,  seeing  he  was  not 
clearly  remembered,  "  but  my  wife  Polly,  as  was  called  Rich- 
ards in  your  family — " 

A  change  in  Mr.  Dombey's  face,  which  seemed  to  express 
recollection  of  him,  and  so  it  did,  but  it  expressed  in  a  much 
stronger  degree  an  angry  sense  of  humiliation,  stopped  Mr. 
Toodle  short. 

•'  Your  wife  wants  money,  I  suppose,"  said  Mr.  Dombey, 
putting  his  hand  in  his  pocket,  and  speaking  (but  that  he 
always  did)  haughtily. 

"No  thank'ee,  Sir,"  returned  Toodle,  "I  can't  say  she  does, 
/don't." 

Mr.  Dombey  was  stopped  short  now  in  his  turn  :  and  awk- 
wardly :  with  his  hand  in  his  pocket. 

"  No,  Sir,"  said  Toodle,  turning  his  oilskin  cap  round  and 
round  ;  "  we're  a  doin'  pretty  well,  Sir  ;  we  haven't  no  cause  to 
complain  in  the  worldly  way.  Sir.  We've  had  four  more  since 
then,  Sir,  but  we  rubs  on." 

Mr.  Dombey  would  have  rubbed  on  to  his  own  carriage, 
though  in  so  doing  he  had  rubbed  the  stoker  underneath  the 
wheels  ;  but  his  attention  was  arrested  by  something  in  con- 
nection with  the  cap  still  going  slowly  round  and  round  in  the 
man's  hand. 

"  We  lost  one  babby,"  observed  Toodle,  "  there's  no 
denyin'." 

"  Lately,"  added  Mr.  Dombey,  looking  at  the  cap. 

"  No,  Sir,  up'ard  of  three  years  ago,  bnt  all  the  rest  is  hearty. 
And  in  the  matter  o'  readin',  Sir,"  said  Toodle,  ducking  again, 
1^  if  to  remind  Mr,  Dombey  of  what  had  passed  between  them 


y1/A>.  DOMBE  Y  GOES  t/POiV  ,  4  JO URNE  V.  2^1 

On  that  subject  long  ago,  "  them  boys  o'  mine,  they  learned  me 
among  'em,  arter  all.  They've  made  a  wery  tolerable  scholar 
of  me,  Sir,  them  boys." 

"  Come,  Major  !  "  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  Beg  your  pardon.  Sir,  resumed  Toodle,  taking  a  step  before 
them  and  deferentially  stopping  them  again,  still  cap  in  hand : 
"  I  wouldn't  have  troubled  you  with  such  a  pint  except  as  a  way 
of  gettin'  in  the  name  of  my  son  Biler — christened  Robin — • 
him  as  you  was  so  good  as  to  make  a  Charitable  Grinder  on." 

"  Well,  man,"  said  Mr.  Dombey  in  his  severest  manner. 
"  What  about  him  ?  " 

"  Why,  Sir,"  returned  Toodle,  shaking  his  head  with  a  face 
of  great  anxiety  and  distress.  "  I'm  forced  to  say,  Sir,  that 
he's  gone  wrong." 

"  He  has  gone  wrong,  has  he  ?  "  said  Mr.  Dombey,  with  a 
hard  kind  of  satisfaction. 

"  He  has  fell  into  bad  company,  you  see,  gentlemen,"  pur- 
sued the  father  looking  wistfully  at  both,  and  evidently  taking 
the  Major  into  the  conversation  with  the  hope  of  having  his 
sympathy.  "  He  has  got  into  bad  ways.  God  send  he  may 
come  too  again,  genelmen,  but  he's  on  the  wrong  track  now  ! 
You  could  hardly  be  off  hearing  of  it  somehow.  Sir,"  said 
Toodle,  again  addressing  Mr.  Dombey  individually  ;  "  and  it's 
better  I  should  out  and  say  my  boy's  gone  rather  wrong.  Polly's 
dreadful  down  about  it,  genelmen,"  said  Toodle  with  the  same 
dejected  look,  and  another  appeal  to  the  Major. 

"  A  son  of  this  man's  whom  I  caused  to  be  educated. 
Major,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  giving  him  his  arm.  "  The  usual 
return  ! " 

"  Take  advice  from  plain  old  Joe,  and  never  educate  that 
sort  of  people.  Sir,"  returned  the  Major.  "Damme,  Sir,  it 
never  does  !     It  always  fails  !  " 

The  simple  father  was  beginning  to  submit  that  he  hoped 
his  son,  the  quondam  Grinder,  huffed  and  cuffed,  and  flogged 
and  badged,  and  taught,  as  parrots  are,  by  a  brute  jobbed  into 
his  place  of  schoolmaster  with  as  much  fitness  for  it  as  a  hound, 
might  not  have  been  educated  on  quite  a  right  plan  in  some 
undiscovered  respect,  when  Mr.  Dombey  angrily  repeating 
"  The  usual  return  !  "  led  the  Major  away.  And  the  Major 
being  heavy  to  hoist  into  Mr.  Dombey's  carriage,  elevated  in 
mid-air,  and  having  to  stop  and  swear  that  he  would  flay  the 
Native  alive,  and  break  every  bone  in  his  skin,  and  visit  other 
physical  torments  upon  him,  every  time  he  couldn't  get  his  foot 
on  the  step,  and  fell  back  on  that  dark  exile,  had  barely  time 


272  iK)MBEV  AND  SOi^. 

before  they  started  to  repeat  hoarsely  that  it  would  never  do : 
that  it  always  failed  :  and  that  if  he  were  to  educate  "  his  own 
vagabond,"  he  would  certainly  be  hani;ed. 

Mr.  Dombey  assented  bitterly ;  but  there  was  something 
more  in  his  bitterness,  and  in  his  moody  way  of  falling  back  in 
the  carriage,  and  looking  with  knitted  brows  at  the  changing 
objects  without,  than  the  failure  of  that  noble  educational 
system  administered  by  the  Grinders'  Company.  He  had  seen 
upon  the  man's  rough  cap  a  piece  of  new  crape,  and  he  had  as- 
sured himself,  from  his  manner  and  his  answers,  that  he  wore 
it  for  his  son. 

So  !  from  high  to  low,  at  home  or  abroad,  from  Florence  in 
his  great  house  to  the  coarse  churl  who  was  feeding  the  fire 
then  smoking  before  them,  every  one  set  up  some  claim  or  other 
to  a  share  in  his  dead  boy,  and  was  a  bidder  against  him  ! 
Could  he  ever  forget  how  that  woman  had  wept  over  his  pillow, 
and  called  him  her  own  child !  or  how  he,  waking  from  his 
sleep,  had  asked  for  her,  and  had  raised  himself  in  his  bed  and 
brightened  when  she  came  in  ! 

To  think  of  this  presumptuous  raker  among  coals  and  ashes 
going  on  before  there,  with  his  sign  of  mourning !  To  think 
that  he  dared  to  enter,  even  by  a  common  show  like  that,  into 
the  trial  and  disappointment  of  a  proud  gentleman's  secret 
heart !  To  think  that  this  lost  child,  who  was  to  have  divided 
with  him  his  riches,  and  his  projects,  and  his  power,  and  allied 
with  whom  he  was  to  have  shut  out  all  the  world  as  with  a 
double  door  of  gold,  should  have  let  in  such  herd  to  insult  him 
with  their  knowledge  of  his  defeated  hopes,  and  their  boasts  of 
claiming  community  of  feeling  with  himself,  so  far  removed  :  if 
not  of  having  crept  into  the  place  wherein  he  would  have  lorded 
it,  alone  ! 

He  found  no  pleasure  or  relief  in  the  journey.  Tortured  by 
these  thoughts  he  carried  monotony  with  him,  through  the 
rushing  landscape,  and  hurried  headlong,  not  through  a  rich 
and  varied  country,  but  a  wilderness  of  blighted  plans  and 
gnawing  jealousies.  The  very  speed  at  which  the  train  was 
whirled  along  mocked  the  swift  course  of  the  young  life  that 
had  been  borne  away  so  steadily  and  so  inexorably  to  its  fore- 
doomed end.  The  power  that  forced  itself  upon  its  iron  way 
— its  own — defiant  of  all  paths  and  roads,  piercing  through  the 
heart  of  every  obstacle,  and  dragging  living  creatures  of  all 
classes,  ages,  and  degrees  behind  it,  was  a  type  of  the  trium- 
phant monster.  Death. 

Away,  with  a  shriek,  and   a  roar,  and  a  rattle,  from  the 


MR.  DOMBEY  GOES  UPON  A  JOURNEY  273 

town,  burrowing  among  the  dwellings  of  men  and  making  the 
streets  hum,  flashing  out  into  the  meadows  for  a  moment, 
mniing  in  through  the  damp  earth,  booming  on  in  darkness  and 
heavy  air,  bursting  out  again  into  the  sunny  day  so  bright  and 
wide  ;  away,  with  a  shriek,  and  a  roar,  and  a  rattle,  through 
the  fields,  through  the  woods,  through  the  corn,  through  the 
liay,  through  the  chalk,  through  the  mould,  through  the  clay, 
through  the  rock,  among  objects  close  at  hand  and  almost  in 
the  grasp,  ever  flying  from  the  traveller,  and  a  deceitful  distance 
ever  moving  slowly  within  him  :  like  as  in  the  track  of  the  re- 
morseless monster.  Death  ! 

Through  the  hollow,  on  the  height,  by  the  heath,  by  the 
orchard,  by  the  park,  by  the  garden,  over  the  canal,  across  the 
river,  where  the  sheep  are  feeding,  where  the  mill  is  going, 
where  the  barge  is  floating,  where  the  dead  are  lying,  where 
the  factory  is  smoking,  where  the  stream  is  running,  where  the 
village  clusters,  where  the  great  cathedral  rises,  where  the  bleak 
moor  lies,  and  the  wild  breeze  smooths  or  ruffles  it  at  its  in- 
constant will  ;  away,  with  a  shriek,  and  a  roar,  and  a  rattle,  and 
no  trace  to  leave  behind  but  dust  and  vapor  :  like  as  in  the 
track  of  the  remorseless  monster.  Death  ! 

Breasting  the  wind  and  light,  the  shower  and  sunshine, 
away,  and  still  away,  it  rolls  and  roars,  fierce  and  rapid,  smooth 
and  certain,  and  great  works  and  massive  bridges  crossing  up 
above,  fall  like  a  beam  of  shadow  an  inch  broad,  upon  the  eye, 
and  then  are  lost.  Away,  and  still  away,  onward  and  onward 
ever;  glimpses  of  cottage-homes,  of  houses,  mansions,  rich 
estates,  of  husbandry  and  handicraft,  of  people,  of  old  roads 
and  paths  that  look  deserted,  small  and  insignificant  as  they  are 
left  behind  :  and  so  they  do,  and  what  else  is  there  but  such 
glimpses,  in  the  track  of  the  indomitable  monster,  Death  ! 

Away,  with  a  shriek,  and  a  roar,  and  a  rattle,  plunging 
down  into  the  earth  again,  and  working  on  in^such  a  storm  of 
energy  and  preseverance,  that  amidst  the  darkness  and  whirl- 
wind the  motion  seems  reversed,  and  to  tend  furiously  back- 
ward, until  a  ray  of  light  upon  the  wet  wall  shows  its  surface 
flying  past  like  a  fierce  stream.  Away  once  more  into  the  day, 
and  through  the  day,  with  a  shrill  yell  of  exultation,  roaring, 
rattling,  tearing  on,  spurning  everything  with  its  dark  breath, 
sometimes  pausing  for  a  minute  where  a  crowd  of  faces  are, 
that  in  a  minute  more  are  not  :  sometimes  lapping  water 
greedilv,  and  before  the  spout  at  which  it  drinks  has  ceased  to 
drip  upon  the  ground,  shrieking,  roaring,  rattling  through  the 
purple  distance  1 


2^4  DOM  BEY  AND  SOA\ 

Louder  and  louder  yet,  it  shrieks  and  cries  as  it  comes 
tearing  on  resistless  to  the  goal :  and  now  its  way,  still  like  the 
way  of  Death,  is  strewn  with  ashes  thickly.  Everything  around 
is  blackened.  There  are  dark  pools  of  water,  muddy  lanes, 
and  miserable  habitations  far  below.  'J'here  are  jagged  walls 
and  falling  houses  close  at  hand,  and  through  the  battered 
roofs  and  broken  windows,  wretched  rooms  are  seen,  where 
want  and  fever  hide  themselves  in  many  wretched  sha^Des,  while 
smoke  and  crowded  gables,  and  distorted  chimneys,  and  de- 
formity of  brick  and  mortar  penning  up  deformity  of  mind  and 
body,  choke  the  murky  distance.  As  Mr.  Dombey  looks  out 
of  his  carriage  window,  it  is  never  in  his  thoughts  that  the 
monster  who  has  brought  him  there  has  let  the  light  of  day  in 
on  these  things  :  not  made  or  caused  them.  It  was  the  jour- 
ney's fitting  end,  and  might  have  been  the  end  of  everything ; 
it  was  so  ruinous  and  dreary. 

So,  pursuing  the  one  course  of  thought,  he  had  the  one  re- 
lentless  monster  still  before  him.  All  things  looked  black,  and 
cold,  and  deadly  ujDon  him,  and  he  on  them.  He  found  a  like- 
ness to  his  misfortune  everywhere.  There  was  a  remorseless 
triumph  going  on  about  him,  and  it  galled  and  stung  him  in  his 
pride  and  jealousy,  whatever  form  it  took  :  though  most  of 
all  when  it  divided  with  him  the  love  and  memory  of  his  lost 
boy. 

There  was  a  face — he  had  looked  upon  it,  on  the  previous 
night,  and  it  on  him  with  eyes  that  read  his  soul,  though  they 
were  dim  with  tears,  and  hidden  soon  behind  two  quivering 
hands — that  often  had  attended  him  in  fancy,  on  this  ride.  He 
had  seen  it,  with  the  expression  of  last  night,  timidly  pleading 
to  him.  It  was  not  reproachful,  but  there  was  something  of 
doubt,  almost  of  hopeful  incredulity  in  it,  which,  as  he  once 
more  saw  that  fade  away  into  a  desolate  certainty  of  his  dislike, 
was  like  reproach.  It  was  a  trouble  to  him  to  think  of  this  face 
of  Florence. 

Because  he  felt  any  new  compunction  towards  xO.  No. 
Because  the  feeling  it  awakened  in  him — of  which  he  had  had 
some  old  foreshadowing  in  older  times — was  full-formed  now, 
and  spoke  out  plainly,  moving  him  too  nmch,  and  threatening 
to  grow  too  strong  for  his  composure.  Because  the  face  was 
abroad,  in  the  expression  of  defeat  and  persecution  that  seemed 
to  encircle  him  like  the  air.  Because  it  barbed  the  arrow  of 
that  cruel  and  remorseless  enemy  on  which  his  thoughts  so  ran, 
and  put  into  its  grasp  a  double-handed  sword.  Because  he 
knew  full  well,  in  his  own  breast  a.s  he  stood  there,  tinging  the 


MR.  DOMBEY  GOES  UPON  A  JOURNEY.  373 

scene  of  transition  before  him  with  the  morbid  colors  of  his 
own  mind,  and  making  it  a  ruin  and  a  picture  of  decay,  instead 
of  hopeful  change,  and  promise  of  better  things,  that  life  had 
quite  as  much  to  do  with  his  complainings  as  death.  One 
child  was  gone,  and  one  child  left.  Why  was  the  object  of  his 
hope  removed  instead  of  her  ? 

The  sweet,  calm,  gentle  presence  in  his  fancy,  moved  him 
to  no  reflection  but  that.  She  had  been  unwelcome  to  him 
from  the  first  ;  she  was  an  aggravation  of  his  bitterness  now. 
If  his  son  had  been  his  only  child,  and  the  same  blow  had 
fallen  on  him,  it  would  have  been  heavy  to  bear  ;  but  infinitely 
lighter  than  now,  when  it  might  have  fallen  on  her  (whom  he 
could  have  lost,  or  he  believed  it,  without  a  pang),  and  had 
not.  Her  loving  and  innocent  face  rising  before  him,  had  no 
softening  or  winning  influence.  He  rejected  the  angel,  and 
took  up  with  the  tormenting  spirit  crouching  in  his  bosom. 
Her  patience,  goodness,  youth,  devotion,  love,  were  as  so  many 
atoms  in  the  ashes  upon  which  he  set  his  heel.  He  saw  her 
image  in  the  blight  and  blackness  all  around  him,  not  irradia- 
ting but  deepening  the  gloom.  More  than  once  upon  this 
journey,  and  now  again  as  he  stood  pondering  at  this  jour- 
ney's end,  tracing  figures  in  the  dust  with  his  stick,  the  thought 
came  into  his  mind,  what  was  there  he  could  interpose  between 
himself  and  it  ? 

The  Major,  who  had  been  blowing  and  panting  all  the  way 
down,  like  another  engine,  and  whose  eye  had  often  wandered 
from  his  newspaper  to  leer  at  the  prospect,  as  if  there  were  a 
procession  of  discomfited  Miss  Toxes  pouring  out  in  the  smoke 
of  the  train,  and  flying  away  over  the  fields  to  hide  themselves 
in  any  place  of  refuge,  aroused  his  friend  by  informing  him 
that  the  post-horses  were  harnessed  and  the  carriage  ready.  _ 

"  Dombey,"  said  the  Major,  rapping  him  on  the  arm  with 
his  cane,  "  don't  be  thoughtful.  It's  a  bad  habit.  Old  Joe, 
Sir,  wouldn't  be  as  tough  as  you  see  him,  if  he  had  ever  en- 
couraged it.  You  are  too  great  a  man,  Dombey,  to  be  thought- 
ful.    In  your  position,  Sir,  you're  far  above  that  kind  of  thing." 

The  Major  even  in  his  friendly  remonstrances,  thus  con- 
sulting the  cfignity  and  honor  of  Mr.  Dombey,  and  showing  a 
lively  sense  of  their  importance,  Mr.  Dombey  felt  more  than 
ever  disposed  to  defer  to  a  gentleman  possessing  so  much  good 
sense  and  such  a  well-regulated  mind  ;  accordingly  he  made  an 
effort  to  listen  to  the  Major's  stories,  as  they  trotted  along  the 
turnpike  road  ;  and  the  Major,  finding  both  the  pace  and  the 
road  a  great  deal  better  adapted  to  his  conversational  powers 


276  DOME  p.  Y  AND  SO.V- 

than  the  mode  of  travelling  they  had  just  relinquished,  came 
out  for  his  entertainment. 

In  this  Jlow  of  spirits  and  conversation,  only  interrupted  by 
his  usual  plethoric  symptoms,  ..nd  by  intervals  of  lunch,  and 
from  time  to  time  by  some  violent  assault  upon  the  Native, 
who  wore  a  pair  of  ear-rings  in  his  dark-brown  ears,  and  on 
whom  his  European  clothes  sat  with  an  outlandish  impossi- 
bility of  adjustment — being,  of  their  own  accord,  and  without 
any  reference  to  the  tailor's  art,  long  where  they  ought  to  be 
short,  short  where  they  ought  to  be  long,  tight  where  they 
ought  to  be  loose,  and  loose  where  they  ought  to  be  tight — 
and  to  which  he  imparted  a  new  grace,  whenever  the  Major 
attacked  him,  by  shrinking  into  them  like  a  shrivelled  nut,  or 
a  cold  monkey — in  this  flow  of  spirits  and  conversation,  the 
Major  continued  all  day:  so  that  when  evrning  came  on,  and 
found  them  trotting  the  green  and  leafy  road  near  Leamington, 
the  Major's  voice,  what  with  talking  and  eating  and  chuckling 
and  choking,  appeared  to  be  in  the  box  under  the  rumble,  or  in 
some  neighboring  hay-stack.  Nor  did  the  Major  improve  it  at 
the  Royal  Hotel,  where  rooms  and  dinner  had  been  ordered, 
and  where  he  so  oppressed  his  organs  of  speech  by  eating  and 
drinking,  that  when  he  retired  to  bed  he  had  no  voice  at  all, 
except  to  cough  with,  and  could  only  make  himself  intelligible 
to  the  dark  servant  by  gasping  at  him. 

He  not  only  rose  next  morning,  however,  like  a  giant  re- 
freshed, but  conducted  himself,  at  breakfast,  like  a  giant  re- 
freshing. At  this  meal  they  arranged  their  daily  habits.  The 
Major  was  to  take  the  responsibility  of  ordering  everything  to 
eat  and  drink  ;  and  they  were  to  have  a  late  breakfast  together 
every  morning,  and  a  late  dinner  together  every  day.  Mr. 
Dombey  would  prefer  remaining  in  his  own  room,  or  walking 
in  the  country  by  himself,  on  that  first  day  of  their  sojourn  at 
Leamington  ;  but  next  morning  he  would  be  happy  to  accom- 
pany the  Major  to  the  Pump-room,  and  about  the  town.  So 
they  parted  until  dinner-time.  Mr.  Dombey  retired  to  nurse 
ills  wholesome  thoughts  in  his  own  way.  The  Major,  attended 
by  the  Native  carrying  a  camp-stool,  a  great-coat,  and  an  um- 
brella, swaggered  up  and  down  through  all  the  public  places; 
looking  into  subscription  books  to  find  out  who  was  there,  look- 
ing up  old  ladies  by  whom  he  was  much  admired,  reporting  J. 
B.  tougher  than  ever,  and  puffing  his  rich  friend  Dombey  wher- 
ever he  went.  There  never  was  a  man  who  stood  by  a  friend 
more  staunchly  than  the  ]\Tajor,  when  in  puffing  him,  he  puffed 
himselL 


yisii^  PAC£s\ 


■11 


It  was  sUf prising  how  much  new  conversation  the  Major 
had  to  let  off  at  dinner-time,  and  what  occasion  he  gave  Mr. 
Dombey  to  admire  his  social  qualities.  At  breakfast  next 
morning,  he  knew  the  contents  of  the  latest  newspapers  re* 
ceived  ;  and  mentioned  several  subjects  in  connection  with 
them,  on  which  his  opinion  had  recently  been  sought  by  per- 
sons of  such  power  and  might,  that  they  were  only  to  be  ob- 
scurely hinted  at.  Mr.  Dombey,  who  had  been  so  long  shut 
up  within  himself,  and  who  had  rarely,  at  any  time,  over- 
stepped the  enchanted  circle  within  which  the  operations  of 
Dombey  and  Son  were  conducted,  began  to  think  this  an  im- 
provement on  his  solitary  life ;  and  in  place  of  excusing  him- 
self for  another  day,  as  he  had  thought  of  doing  when  alone, 
walked  out  with  the  Major  arm-in-arm. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

NEW    FACES. 


The  Major,  more  blue-faced  and  staring — more  over-ripe, 
as  it  were,  than  ever — and  giving  vent,  every  now  and  then,  to 
one  of  the  horse's  coughs,  not  so  much  of  necessity  as  in  a 
spontaneous  explosion  of  importance,  walked  arm-in-arm  with 
Mr.  Dombey  up  the  sunny  side  of  the  way,  with  his  cheeks 
swelling  over  his  tight  stock,  his  legs  majestically  wide  apart, 
and  his  great  head  wagging  from  side  to  side,  as  if  he  were  re- 
monstrating within  himself  for  being  such  a  captivating  object. 
They  had  not  walked  many  yards,  before  the  Major  encoun- 
tered somebody  he  knew,  nor  many  yards  farther  before  the 
Major  encountered  somebody  else  he  knew,  but  he  merely 
shook  his  fingers  at  them  as  he  passed,  and  led  Mr.  Dombey 
on  :  pointing  out  the  localities  as  they  went,  and  enlivening  the 
walk  with  any  current  scandal  suggested  by  them. 

In  this  manner  the  Major  and  Mr.  Dombey  were  walking 
arm-in-arm,  much  to  their  own  satisfaction,  when  they  beheld 
advancing  towards  them,  a  wheeled  chair,  in  which  a  lady  was 
seated,  indolently  steering  her  carriage  by  a  kind  of  rudder 
in  front,  while  it  was  propelled  by  some  unseen  power  in  the 
rear.  Although  the  lady  was  not  young,  she  was  very  bloom- 
ing in  the  face — quite  rosy — and  her  dress  and  attitude  were 
perfectly  juvenile.     Walking  by  the   side  of  the  chair,   and 


4  7 i  t>OMBE  y  A  ND  SON" 

carrying  her  gossamer  parasol  with  a  proud  and  weary  air, 
as  if  so  great  an  effort  must  be  soon  abandoned  and  the 
parasol  dropped,  sauntered  a  much  younger  lady,  very  hand- 
some, very  haughty,  very  wilful,  who  tossed  her  head  and 
drooped  her  eyelids,  as  though,  if  there  were  anything  in  all 
the  world  worth  looking  into,  save  a  mirror,  it  certainly  was 
not  the  earth  or  sky. 

"  Why,  what  the  devil  have  we  here,  Sir  !  "  cried  the  Majoi^ 
stopping  as  this  little  cavalcade  drew  near. 

"  My  dearest  Edith  ]  "  drawled  the  lady  In  the  chair,  "  Ma- 
jor Bagstock  !  " 

The  Major  no  sooner  heard  the  voice,  than  he  relinquished 
Mr.  Dombey's  arm,  darted  forward,  took  the  hand  of  the  lady 
in  the  chair  and  pressed  it  to  his  lips.  With  no  less  gallantry,  the 
Major  folded  both  his  gloves  upon  his  heart,  and  bowed  low  to 
the  other  lady.  And  now,  the  chair  having  stopped,  the  motive 
power  became  visible  in  the  shape  of  a  flushed  page  pushing 
behind,  who  seemed  to  ha\-e  in  part  outgrown  and  in  part  out- 
pushed  his  strength,  for  when  he  stood  upright  he  was  tall,  and 
wan,  and  thin,  and  his  plight  appeared  the  more  forlorn  from 
his  having  injured  the  shape  of  his  hat,  by  butting  at  the  car- 
riage with  his  head  to  urge  it  forward,  as  is  sometimes  done  by 
elephants  in  Oriental  countries. 

"Joe  Bagstock,"  said  the  Major  to  both  ladies,  "  is  a  proud 
and  happy  man  for  the  rest  of  his  life." 

"  You  false  creature,"  said  the  old  lady  in  the  chair,  insip- 
idly.    "  Where  do  you  come  from  }     I  can't  bear  you." 

"Then  suffer  old  Joe  to  present  a  friend,  Ma'am,"  said  the 
Major,  promptly,  "  as  a  reason  for  being  tolerated.  Mr.  Dom- 
bey,  Mrs.  Skewton."  The  lady  in  the  chair  was  gracious. 
"  Mr.  Dombey,  Mrs.  Granger."  The  lady  with  the  parasol 
was  faintly  conscious  of  Mr.  Dombey's  taking  off  his  hat,  and 
bowing  low.  "  I  am  delighted.  Sir,"  said  the  Major,  "  to  have 
this  opportunity." 

The  Major  seemed  in  earnest,  for  he  looked  at  all  the  three, 
and  leered  in  his  ugliest  manner. 

"  Mrs.  Skewton,  Dombey,"  said  the  Major,  "  makes  havoc 
in  the  heart  of  old  Josh." 

Mr,  Dombey  signified  that  he  didn't  wonder  at  it. 

"You  perfidious  goblin,"  said  the  lady  in  the  chair,  "have 
done  1     How  long  have  you  been  here,  bad  man  ?  " 

"One  day,"  replied  tlie  Major. 

"  And  can  you  be  a  day,  or  even  a  minute,"  returned  the 
l»dy,  slightly  settling  her  false  curls  and  false  eyebrows  with 


N-EW  FACES.  ^j^ 

hex  fan,  and  showing  her  false  teeth,  set  off  by  her  false  com- 
plexion, "  in  the  garden  of  what's-its-name — " 

"  Eden,  I  suppose,  Mama,"  interrupted  the  younger  lady, 
scornfully. 

"  My  dear  Edith,"  said  the  other,  "  I  cannot  help  it.  I 
never  can  remember  those  frightful  names — without  having 
your  whole  Soul  and  Being  inspired  by  the  sight  of  Nature  ;  by 
the  perfume,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  rustling  a  handkerchief  that 
was  faint  and  sickly  with  essences,  "  of  her  artless  breath,  you 
creature ! " 

The  discrepancy  between  Mrs.  Skewton's  fresh  enthusiasm 
of  words,  and  forlornly  faded  manner,  was  hardly  less  observ- 
able than  that  between  her  age,  which  was  about  seventy,  and 
her  dress,  which  would  have  been  youthful  for  twenty-seven. 
Her  attitude  in  the  wheeled  chair  (which  she  never  varied)  was 
one  in  which  she  had  been  taken  in  a  barouche,  some  fifty 
years  before,  by  a  then  fashionable  artist  who  had  appended 
to  his  published  sketch  the  name  of  Cleopatra :  in  consequence 
of  a  discovery  made  by  the  critics  of  the  time,  that  it  bore  an 
exact  resemblance  to  that  Princess  as  she  reclined  on  board 
her  galley.  Mrs,  Skewton  was  a  beauty  then,  and  bucks  threw 
wineglasses  over  their  heads  by  dozens  in  her  honor.  The 
beauty  and  the  barouche  had  both  passed  away,  but  she  still 
preserved  the  attitude,  and  for  this  reason  expressly,  maintained 
the  wheeled  chair  and  the  butting  page  :  there  being  nothing 
whatever,  except  the  attitude,  to  prevent  her  from  walking, 

"  Mr.  Dombey  is  devoted  to  nature,  I  trust  ? "  said  Mrs. 
Skewton,  settling  her  diamond  brooch.  And  by  the  way,  she 
chiefly  lived  upon  the  reputation  of  some  diamonds,  and  her 
family  connections, 

"  My  friend  Dombey,  Ma'am,"  returned  the  Major,  "  may 
be  devoted  to  her  in  secret,  but  a  man  who  is  paramount  in  the 
greatest  city  in  the  universe — " 

"No  one  can  be  a  stranger,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  "to  Mr. 
Dombey's  immense  influence." 

As  Mr.  Dombey  acknowledged  the  compliment  with  a  bend 
<9f  his  head,  the  younger  lady  glancing  at  him,  met  his  eyes. 

"  You  reside  here,  Madam  ? "  said"  Mr.  Dombey,  addressing 
her. 

"  No,  we  have  been  to  a  great  many  places.  To  Harrow- 
gate  and  Scarborough,  and  into  Devonshire.  We  have  been 
visiting,  and  resting  here  and  there.     Mama  likes  change." 

"Edith  of  course  does  not,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  with  9 
ghastly  archness. 


sSo  DOMBE  Y  AND  SON. 

"  I  have  not  found  that  there  is  any  change  in  such  places,^ 
was  the  answer,  delivered  with  supreme  indifference. 

"They  libel  me.  There  is  only  one  change,  Mr.  Dombey," 
observed  Mrs.  Skewton,  with  a  mincing  sigh,  "  for  which  I 
really  care,  and  that  I  fear  I  shall  never  be  permitted  to  enjoy. 
People  cannot  spare  one.  But  seclusion  and  contemplation 
are  my  what's-his-name — " 

"  If  you  mean  Paradise,  Mama,  you  had  better  say  so,  to 
render  yourself  intelligible,"  said  the  younger  lady. 

"My  dearest  Edith,"  returned  Mrs.  Skewton,  "  you  know 
that  I  am  wholly  dependent  upon  you  for  those  odious  names. 
I  assure  you,  Mr.  Dombey.  Nature  intended  me  for  an  Arca- 
dian. I  am  thrown  away  in  society.  Cows  are  my  passion. 
What  I  have  ever  sighed  for,  has  been  to  retreat  to  a  Swiss 
farm,  and  live  entirely  surrounded  by  cows — and  china." 

This  curious  association  of  objects,  suggesting  a  remem- 
brance of  the  celebrated  bull  who  got  by  mistake  into  a  crock- 
ery shop,  was  received  with  perfect  gravity  by  Mr.  Dombey, 
who  intimated  his  opinion  that  Nature  was,  no  doubt,  a  very 
respectable  institution. 

"  What  I  want,"  drawled  Mrs.  Skewton,  pinching  her 
shrivelled  thro-at,  "  is  heart."  It  was  frightfully  true  in  one 
sense,  if  not  in  that  in  which  she  used  the  phrase.  "  What  I 
want,  is  frankness,  confidence,  less  conventionality,  and  freer 
play  of  soul.     We  are  so  dreadfully  artificial." 

We  were,  indeed. 

"  In  short,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  "  I  want  Nature  everj'where. 
It  would  be  so  extremely  charming." 

"  Nature  is  inviting  us  away,  Mama,  if  you  are  ready,"  said 
the  younger  lady,  curling  her  handsome  lip.  At  this  hint,  the 
wan  page,  who  had  been  surveying  the  party  over  the  top  of 
the  chair,  vanished  behind  it,  as  if  the  ground  had  swallowed 
him  up. 

"  Stop  a  moment,  Withers !  "  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  as  the 
chair  began  to  move  ;  calling  to  the  page  with  all  the  languid 
dignity  with  which  she  had  called  in  days  of  yore  to  a  coach- 
man with  a  wig,  cauliflower  nosegay,  and  silk  stockings;  "  ^here 
are  you  staying,  abomination  ?  " 

The  Major  was  staying  at  the  Royal  Hotel,  with  his  friend 
Dombey. 

"  You  may  come  and  see  us  any  evenmg  when  you  are  good," 
lisped  Mrs.  Skewton.  "  If  Mr.  Dombey  will  honor  us,  we 
*hall  be  happy.     Withers,  go  on  I  " 

Th<?  Major  again  pressed  to  hi§  blue  lips  the  tips  of  tb» 


ISTEW  FACES.  28, 

Angers  that  were  disposed  on  the  ledge  of  the  wheeled  chair 
witli  careful  carelessness,  after  the  Cleopatra  model :  and  Mr. 
Dombey  bowed.  The  elder  lady  honored  them  both  with  a 
very  gracious  smile  and  a  girlish  wave  of  her  hand  ;  the  younger 
lady  with  the  very  slightest  inclination  of  her  head  that  common 
courtesy  allowed. 

The  last  glimpse  of  the  wrinkled  face  of  the  mother,  with 
that  patched  color  on  it  which  the  sun  made  infinitely  more 
haggard  and  dismal  than  any  want  of  color  could  have  been, 
and  of  the  proud  beauty  of  the  daughter  with  her  graceful 
figure  and  erect  deportment,  engendered  such  an  involuntary 
dfsposition  on  the  part  of  both  the  Major  and  Mr.  Dombey  to 
look  after  them,  that  they  both  turned  at  the  same  moment. 
The  Page,  nearly  as  much  aslant  as  his  own  shadow,  was  toil- 
ing after  the  chair,  uphill,  like  a  slow  battering-ram  ;  the  top  of 
Cleopatra's  bonnet  was  fluttering  in  exactly  the  same  corner  to 
the  inch  as  before  ;  and  the  Beauty,  loitering  by  herself  a  little 
in  advance,  expressed  in  all  her  elegant  form,  from  head  to  foot, 
the  same  supreme  disregard  of  everything  and  everybody. 

"  I  tell  you  what.  Sir,"  said  the  Major,  as  they  resumed 
their  walk  again.  "  If  Joe  Bagstock  were  a  younger  man, 
there's  not  a  woman  in  the  world  whom  he'd  prefer  for  Mrs. 
Bagstock  to  that  woman.  By  George,  Sir ! "  said  the  Major, 
"  she's  superb  !  " 

"  Do  you  mean  the  daughter  ?  "  inquired  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  Is  Joey  B.  a  turnip,  Dombey,"  said  the  Major,  "  that  he 
should  mean  the  mother  !  " 

"  You  were  complimentary  to  the  mother,"  returned  Mr. 
Dombey. 

"  An  ancient  flame.  Sir,"  chuckled  Major  Bagstock.  "  Dev- 
ilish ancient.     I  humor  her." 

"  She  impresses  me  as  being  perfectly  genteel,"  said  Mr, 
Dombey. 

"  Genteel,  Sir,"  said  the  Major,  stopping  short,  and  staring 
in  his  companion's  face.  "  The  Honorable  Mrs.  Skewton,  Sir, 
is  sister  to  the  late  Lord  Feenix,  and  aunt  to  the  present  Lord. 
The  family  are  not  wealthy — they're  poor,  indeed — and  she 
lives  upon  a  small  jointure;  but  if  you  come  to  blood,  Sir  J" 
The  Major  gave  a  flourish  with  his  stick  and  walked  on  again, 
in  despair  of  being  able  to  say  what  you  came  to,  if  you  came 
to  that. 

"You  addressed  the  daughter,  I  observed,"  said  Mr.  Dom- 
bey, after  a  short  pause,  "  as  Mrs.  Granger." 

"  Edith  Skewton,  Sir."  returned  the  Major,  stopping  .short 


jgj  DOMBEY  AND  SOA\ 

again,  and  punching  a  mark  in  the  ground  with  his  cane,  to  ref^ 
resent  her,  "married  (at  eighteen)  Granger  of  Ours;"  whom 
tlie  Major  indicated  by  another  punch.  "  Granger,  Sir,"  said 
the  Major,  tapping  the  last  ideal  portrait,  and  rolling  his  head 
emphatically,  "  was  Colonel  of  Ours ;  a  de-vilish  handsome 
fellow.  Sir,  of  forty-one.  He  died,  Sir,  in  the  second  year  of 
his  marriage."  The  Major  ran  the  representative  of  the  de- 
ceased Granger  through  and  through  the  body  with  his  walking- 
stick,  and  went  on  again,  carrying  his  stick  over  his  shoulder. 

"  How  long  is  this  ago  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Dombey,  making  arv 
other  halt. 

"  Edith  Granger,  Sir,"  replied  the  Major,  shutting  one  eye, 
putting  his  head  on  one  side,  passing  his  cane  into  his  left  hand, 
and  smoothing  his  shirt-frill  with  his  right,  "  is,  at  this  present 
time,  not  quite  thirty.  And,  damme.  Sir,"  said  the  IMajor, 
shouldering  his  stick  once  more,  and  walking  on  again,  she's  a 
peerless  woman  ! " 

"  Was  there  any  family  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Dombey  presently. 

"  Yes,  Sir,"  said  the  Major.     "  There  was  a  boy." 

Mr.  Dombey's  eyes  sought  the  ground,  and  a  shade  came 
over  his  face. 

"Who  was  drowned.  Sir,"  pursued  the  Major.  "  When  a 
child  of  four  or  five  years  old." 

"  Indeed  ?  "  said  Mr.  Dombey,  raising  his  head. 

"  By  the  upsetting  of  a  boat  in  which  his  nurse  had  no  busi- 
ness to  have  put  him,"  said  the  Major.  "  That's  his  histor)-. 
Edith  Granger  is  Edith  Granger  still  ;  but  if  tough  old  Joey  B,, 
Sir,  were  a  little  richer,  the  name  of  that  immortal  paragon 
should  be  Bagstock." 

The  Major  heaved  his  shoulders,  and  his  cheeks,  and 
laughed  more  like  an  over-fed  Mephistopheles  than  ever,  as  he 
said  the  words. 

"  Provided  the  lady  made  no  objection,  I  suppose  ? "  said 
Mr.  Dombey  coldly. 

"  By  Gad,  Sir,"  said  the  Major,  "  the  Bagstock  breed  are 
not  accustomed  to  that  sort  of  obstacle.  Though  it's  true 
enough  that  Edith  might  have  married  twenty  times,  but  for 
being  proud.  Sir,  proud." 

Mr.  Dombey  seemed,  by  his  face,  to  think  no  worse  of  her 
for  that. 

"It's  a  great  quality  after  all,"  said  the  Major.  "By  the 
Lord,  it's  a  high  quality  !  Dombey  !  You  are  proud  yourself. 
And  your  frien'd,  Old  Joe,  respects  you  for  it,  Sir." 

With  this  tribute  to  the  character  of  his  ally,  which  seemed 


^TEIV  PAC^S.  283 

to  be  wrung  from  him  by  the  force  of  circumstances  and  the  ir- 
resistible tendency  of  their  conversation,  the  Major  closed  the 
subject,  and  glided  into  a  general  exposition  of  the  extent  to 
which  he  had  been  beloved  and  doated  on  by  splendid  women 
and  brilliant  creatures. 

On  the  next  day  but  one,  Mr.  Dombey  and  the  Major  en- 
countered the  Honorable  Mrs.  Skewton  and  her  daughter  in 
the  Pump-room  ;  on  the  day  after,  they  met  them  again  very 
near  the  place  where  they  had  met  them  first.  After  meeting 
them  thus,  three  or  four  times  in  all,  it  became  a  point  of  more 
civility  to  old  acquaintances  that  the  Major  should  go  there  one 
evening.  Mr.  Dombey  had  not  originally  intended  to  pay  visits, 
but  on  the  Major  announcing  this  intention,  he  said  he  would 
have  the  pleasure  of  accompanying  him.  So  the_  Major  told 
the  Native  to  go  round  before  dinner  and  say,  with  his  and 
Mr.  Dombey's  compliments,  that  they  would  have  the  honor  of 
visiting  the  ladies  that  same  evening,  if  the  ladies  were  alone. 
In  answer  to  which  message,  the  Native  brought  back  a  very 
small  note  with  a  very  large  quantity  of  scent  about  it,  indited 
by  the  Honorable  Mrs.  Skewton  to  Major  Bagstock,  and  briefly 
saying,  "  You  are  a  shocking  bear,  and  I  have  a  great  mind  not 
to  forgive  you,  but  if  you  are  very  good  indeed,"  which  was  un- 
derlined, "you  may  come.  Compliments  (in  which  Edith 
unites  to  Mr.  Dombey." 

The  Honorable  Mrs.  Skewton  and  her  daughter,  Mrs. 
Granger,  resided  while  at  Leamington,  in  lodgings  that  were 
fashionable  enough  and  dear  enough,  but  rather  limited  in 
point  of  space  and  conveniences  ;  so  that  the  Honorable  Mrs. 
Skewton,  being  in  bed,  had  her  feet  in  the  window  and  her  head 
in  the  fire-place,  while  the  Honorable  Mrs.  Skewton's  maid  was 
quartered  in  a  closet  within  the  drawing-room,  so  extremely 
small,  that,  to  avoid  developing  the  whole  of  its  accommoda- 
tions, she  was  obliged  to  writhe  in  and  out  of  the  door  like  a 
beautiful  serpent.  Withers,'  the  wan  page,  slept  out  of  the 
house  immediately  under  the  tiles  at  a  neighboring  milk-shop  ; 
and  the  wheeled  chair,  which  was  the  stone  of  that  young  Sisy- 
phus, passed  the  night  in  a  shed  belonging  to  the  same  dairy, 
where  new-laid  eggs  were  produced  by  the  poultry  connected 
with  the  establishment,  who  roosted  on  a  broken  donkey-cart, 
persuaded,  to  all  appearance,  that  it  grew  there,  and  was  a 
species  of  tree. 

Mr.  Dombey  and  the  Major  found  Mrs.  Skewton  arranged, 
as  Cleopatra,  among  the  cushions  of  a  sofa  :  very  airily  dressed ; 
and  certainly  not  resembling  Shakspeare's  Cleopatra,  whom  age 


284  bOMBEV  AND  ^ON. 

could  not  wither.  On  their  way  upstairs  they  had  heard  the 
sound  of  a  harp,  but  it  had  ceased  on  their  being  announced, 
and  Edith  now  stood  beside  it  handsomer  and  haughtier  than 
tver.  It  was  a  remarkable  characteristic  of  this  lady's  beauty 
that  it  appeared  to  vaunt  and  assert  itself  without  her  aid,  and 
against  her  will.  She  knew  that  she  was  beautiful ;  it  was  im- 
possible that  it  could  be  otherwise  :  but  she  seemed  with  her 
own  pride  to  defy  her  very  self. 

Whether  she  held  cheap,  attractions  that  could  only  call 
forth  admiration  that  was  worthless  to  her,  or  whether  she  de- 
signed to  render  them  more  precious  to  admirers  by  this  usage 
of  them,  those  to  whom  they  were  precious  seldom  paused  to 
consider. 

"  I  hope,  Mrs.  Granger,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  advancing  a  step 
towards  her,  "  we  are  not  the  cause  of  your  ceasing  to  play  ?  " 

"  You  ?  oh  no  !  " 

"  Why  do  you  not  go  on,  then,  my  dearest  Edith  ?  "  said 
Cleopatra. 

"  I  left  off  as  I  began — of  my  own  fancy." 

The  exquisite  indifference  of  her  manner  in  saying  this : 
an  indifference  quite  removed  from  dulness  or  insensiblity,  for 
it  was  pointed  with  proud  purpose :  was  well  set  off  by  the 
carelessness  with  which  she  drew  her  hand  across  the  strings, 
and  came  from  that  part  of  the  room. 

"  Do  you  know,  Mr.  Dombey,"  said  her  languishing  mother, 
playing  with  a  hand-screen,  "that  occasionally  my  dearest 
Edith  and  myself  actually  almost  differ " 

"  Not  quite,  sometimes.  Mamma  .''  "  said  Edith. 

"  Oh  never  quite,  my  darling  !  Fie,  fie,  it  would  break  my 
heart,"  returned  her  motlier,  making  a  faint  attack  to  pat  her 
with  the  screen,  which  Edith  made  no  movement  to  meet, 
" — about  these  cold  conventionalities  of  manner  that  are  ob- 
served in  little  things  ?  Why  are  we  not  more  natural  !  Dear 
me  !  With  all  those  yearnings,  and  gushings,  and  impulsive 
throbbings  that  we  have  implanted  in  our  souls,  and  which  are 
so  very  charming,  why  are  we  not  more  natural  ?  " 

Mr.  Dombey  said  it  was  very  true,  very  true. 

"  We  could  be  more  natural  I  suppose  if  we  tried  ? "  said 
Mrs.  Skewton. 

Mr.  Dombey  thought  it  possible. 

"  Devil  a  bit,  Ma'am,"  said  the  Major.  "  We  couldn't  af- 
ford it.  Unless  the  world  was  peopled  with  J.  IVs — tough  and 
blunt  old  Joes,  Ma'am,  plain  red  herrings  with  hard  roes,  Sir— 
we  couldn't  afford  it.     It  wouldn't  do." 


NEW  FACES.  285 

"You  naughty  Infidel,"  said  Mrs   Skewton,  ''be  mute." 

"  Cleopatra  commands,"  returned  the  Major  kissing  his 
hand  "and  Antony  Bagstock  obeys." 

''The  man  has  no  sensitiveness,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  cruelly 
holding  up  the  hand-screen  so  as  to  shut  the  major  out.  "No 
sympathy.  And  what  do  we  live  for  but  sympathy  !  What  else 
is  so  extremely  charming !  Without  that  gleam  of  sunshine  on 
our  cold  cold  earth,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  arranging  her  lace 
tucker,  and  complacently  observing  the  effect  of  her  bare  lean 
arm,  looking  upward  from  the  wrist,  "  how  could  we  possibly 
bear  it  ?  In  short,  obdurate  man  !  "  glancing  at  the  Major, 
round  the  screen,  "  I  would  have  my  world  all  heart ;  and 
Faith  is  so  excessively  charming,  that  I  won't  allow  you  to  dis- 
turb it,  do  you  hear  ?  " 

The  Major  replied  that  it  was  hard  in  Cleopatra  to  require 
the  world  to  be  all  heart,  and  yet  to  appropriate  to  herself  the 
hearts  of  all  the  world  ;  which  obliged  Cleopatra  to  remind  him 
that  flattery  was  insupportable  to  her,  and  that  if  he  had  the 
boldness  to  address  her  in  that  strain  any  more,  she  would  posi- 
tively send  him  home. 

Withers  the  Wan.  at  this  period,  handing  round  the  tea,  Mr. 
Dombey  again  addressed  himself  to  Edith. 

"  There  is  not  much  company  here,  it  would  seem  ?  "  said 
Mr.  Dombey,  in  his  own  portentous  gentlemanly  way. 

"  I  believe  not.    We  see  none." 

"  Why  really,"  observed  Mrs.  Skewton  from  her  couch, 
"there  are  no  people  here  just  now  with  whom  we  care  to 
associate." 

"They  have  not  enough  heart,"  said  Edith,  with  a  smile. 
The  very  twilight  of  a  smile :  so  singularly  were  its  light  and 
darkness  blended. 

"My  dearest  Edith  rallies  me,  you  see!"  said  her  mother, 
shaking  her  head  :  which  shook  a  little  of  itself  sometimes,  as 
if  the  palsy  twinkled  now  and  then  in  opposition  to  the 
diamonds.     "  Wicked  one  !  " 

"  You  have  been  here  before,  if  I  am  not  mistaken  ?  "  said 
Mr.  Dombey.     Still  to  Edith. 

"  Oh,  several  times.     I  think  we  have  been  everywhere." 

"  A  beautiful  country !  " 

"  I  suppose  it  is.     Everybody  says  so," 

"  Your  cousin  Feenix  raves  about  it,  Edith,"  interposed  her 
mother  from  her  couch. 

The  daughter  slightly  turned  her  graceful  head,  and  raising 
tei  eyebrows  by  a  hair's-breadth.  as  if  her  gou^in  Fe^n.i*  ))?ere 


285  DOMREY  AND  SON. 

of  all  the  mortal  world  the  least  to  be  regarded,  turned  her 
eyes  again  towards  Mr.  Dombey. 

'*  I  hope,  for  the  credit  of  my  good  taste,  that  I  am  tired  of 
the  neighborhood,"  she  said. 

"  You  have  almost  reason  to  be,  Madam,"  he  replied  glan- 
cing at  a  variety  of  landscape  drawings,  of  which  he  had  already 
recognized  several  as  representing  neighboring  points  of  view, 
and  which  were  strewn  abundantly  about  the  room,  "  if  these 
beautiful  productions  are  from  your  hand. 

She  gave  him  no  reply,  but  sat  in  a  disdainful  beauty,  quite 
amazing. 

"  Have  they  that  interest  ?  "  said  Mr.  Dombey.  "  Are  they 
yours  ? " 

"  Yes." 

"  And  you  play,  I  already  know." 

"  Yes." 

"  And  sing  ?  " 

*'  Yes." 

She  answered  all  these  questions  with  a  strange  reluctance  ; 
and  with  that  remarkable  air  of  opposition  to  herself,  already 
noticed  as  belonging  to  her  beauty.  Yet  she  was  not  embar- 
rassed, but  wholly  self-possessed.  Neither  did  she  seem  to 
wish  to  avoid  conversation,  for  she  addressed  her  face,  and — 
so  far  as  she  could — her  manner  also,  to  him  ;  and  continued 
to  do  so,  when  he  was  silent. 

"  You  have  many  resources  against  weariness  at  least,"  said 
Mr,  Dombey. 

"  Whatever  their  efficiency  may  be,"  she  returned,  "  you 
know  them  all  now.     I  have  no  more." 

"  May  I  hope  to  prove  them  all .'' "  said  Mr.  Dombey,  with 
solemn  gallantry,  laying  down  a  drawing  he  had  held,  and 
motioning  towards  the  harp. 

"  Oh  certainly  !     If  you  desire  it !  " 

She  rose  as  she  spoke,  and  crossing  by  her  mother's  couch, 
and  directing  a  stately  look  towards  her,  which  was  instantane- 
ous in  its  duration,  but  inclusive  (if  any  one  had  seen  it)  of  a 
multitude  of  expressions,  among  which  that  of  the  twilight 
smile,  without  the  smile  itself,  overshadowed  all  the  rest,  went 
out  of  the  room. 

The  Major,  who  was  quite  forgiven  by  this  time,  had  wheeled 
a  little  table  up  to  Cleopatra,  and  was  sitting  down  to  play 
picquet  with  her.  Mr.  Dombey,  not  knowing  the  game,  sat 
down  to  watch  thcni  for  his  edification  until  Edith  should 
return. 


NEW  FACES.  zZl 

"We  are  going  to  have  some  music,  Mi  Dombey,  I  hope  ? " 
said  Cleopatra. 

"  Mrs.  Gi-anger  has  been  kind  enough  lo  promise  so,"  said 
Mr.  Dombey. 

"  Ah  !     That's  very  nice.     Do  you  propose,  Major  ?  " 

"  No,  Ma'am,"  said  the  Major.     "  Couldn't  do  it," 

"You're  a  barbarous  being,"  replied  the  lady,  "and  my 
hand  s  destroyed.     You  are  fond  of  music,  Mr.  Dombey.?'' 

"  Eminently  so,"  was  Mr.  Dombey's  answ^er. 

"  Yes.  It's  very  nice,"  said  Cleopatra,  looking  at  her  cards. 
"  So  much  heart  in  it — undeveloped  recollections  of  a  previous 
state  of  existence — and  all  that — which  is  so  truly  charming. 
Do  you  know,"  simpered  Cleopatra,  reversing  the  knave  of 
clubs,  who  had  come  into  her  game  with  his  heels  uppermost, 
"  that  if  anything  could  tempt  me  to  put  a  period  to  my  life,  it 
would  be  curiosity  to  find  out  what  it's  all  about,  and  what  it 
means ;  there  are  so  many  provoking  mysteries,  really,  that  are 
hidden  from  us.     Major,  you  to  play." 

The  Major  played ;  and  Mr.  Dombey,  looking  on  for  his 
instruction,  would  soon  have  been  in  a  state  of  dire  confusion, 
but  that  he  gave  no  attention  to  the  game  whatever,  and  sat 
wondering  instead  when  Edith  would  come  back. 

She  came  at  last,  and  sat  down  to  her  harp,  and  Mr.  Dom- 
bey rose  and  stood  iDCside  her,  listening.  He  had  little  taste 
for  music,  and  no  knowledge  of  the  strain  she  played,  but  he 
saw  her  bending  over  it,  and  perhaps  he  heard  among  the 
sounding  strings  some  distant  music  of  his  own,  that  tamed  the 
monster  of  the  iron  road,  and  made  it  less  inexorable. 

Cleopatra  had  a  sharp  eye,  verily,  at  picquet.  It  glistened 
like  a  bird's,  and  did  not  fix  itself  upon  the  game,  but  pierced 
the  room  from  end  to  end,  and  gleamed  on  harp,  performer, 
listener,  everything. 

When  the  haughty  beauty  had  concluded,  she  arose,  and 
receiving  Mr.  Dombey's  thanks  and  compliments  in  exactly  the 
same  manner  as  before,  went  with  scarcely  any  pause  to  the 
piano,  and  began  there. 

Edith  Granger,  any  song  but  that !  Edith  Granger,  you 
are  very  handsome,  and  your  touch  upon  the  keys  is  brilliant, 
and  your  voice  is  deep  and  rich  ;  but  not  the  air  that  his  neg- 
lected daughter  sang  to  his  dead  son  ! 

Alas,  he  knows  it  not ;  and  if  he  did,  what  air  of  hers  would 
stir  him,  rigid  man  !  Sleep,  lonely  Florence,  sleep  !  Peace  in 
•iiy  dreams,  although  the  night  has  turned  dark,  and  the  clouds 
-%re  gathering,  and  threaten  to  discharge  themselves  in  hail  1 


£&?  DOMBEY  Ax\D  ."iON. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

A  TRIFLE  OF  MANAGEMENT  BY  MR.  CARKER  THE  MANAGER. 

Mr.  Carker  the  Manager  sat  at  his  desk,  smooth  and  soft 
as  usual,  reading  those  letters  which  were  reserved  for  him  to 
open,  backing  them  occasionally  with  such  memoranda  and 
references  as  their  business  purport  required,  and  parcelling 
them  out  into  little  heaps  for  distribution  through  the  several 
departments  of  the  House.  The  post  had  come  in  heavy  that 
morning,  and  Mr.  Carker  the  Manager  had  a  good  deal  to  do. 

The  general  action  of  a  man  so  engaged — pausing  to  look 
over  a  bundle  of  papers  in  his  hand,  dealing  them  round  in 
various  portions,  taking  up  another  bundle  and  examining  its 
contents  with  knitted  brows  and  pursed-out  lips — dealing,  and 
sorting,  and  pondering  by  turns — would  easily  suggest  some 
whimsical  resemblance  to  a  player  at  cards.  The  face  of  Mr. 
Carker  the  Manager  was  in  good  keeping  with  such  a  fancy. 
It  was  the  face  of  a  man  who  studied  his  play,  warily  :  who 
made  himself  master  of  all  the  strong  and  weak  points  of  the 
game  :  who  registered  the  cards  in  his  mind  as  they  fell  about 
him,  knew  exactly  what  was  on  them,  what  they  missed,  and 
"what  they  made  :  who  was  crafty  to  find  out  what  the  other 
players  held,  and  who  never  betrayed  his  own  hand. 

The  letters  were  in  various  languages,  but  Mr.  Carker  the 
Manager  read  them  all.  If  there  had  been  anything  in  the 
ofiftces  of  Dombey  and  Son  that  he  could  not  read,  there  would 
have  been  a  card  wanting  in  the  pack.  He  read  almost  at  a. 
glance,  and  made  combinations  of  one  letter  with  another  and 
one  business  with  another  as  he  went  on,  adding  new  matter  to 
the  heaps — much  as  a  man  would  know  the  cards  at  sight,  and 
work  out  their  combinations  in  his  mind  after  they  were  turned. 
Something  too  deep  for  a  partner,  and  much  too  deep  for  an 
adversary,  Mr.  Carker  the  Manager  sat  in  the  rays  of  the  sun 
that  came  down  slanting  on  him  through  the  skylight,  playing 
his  game  alone. 

And  although  it  is  not  among  the  instincts  wild  or  domestic 
of  the  cat  tribe  to  play  at  cards,  feline  from  sole  to  crown  was 
Mr.  Carker  the  Manager,  as  he  basked  in  the  strip  of  summer 


A   TRIFLE  OF  MANAGEMENT.  289 

light  and  warmth  that  shone  upon  his  table  and  the  grour_d  as 
if  they  were  a  crooked  dial-plate,  and  himself  the  only  figure 
on  it.  With  hair  and  whiskers  deficient  in  color  at  all  times, 
but  feebler  than  common  in  the  rich  sunshine,  and  more  like 
the  coat  of  a  sandy  tortoise-shell  cat ;  with  long  nails,  nicely 
pared  and  sharpened  ;  with  a  natural  antipathy  to  any  speck 
of  dirt,  which  made  him  pause  sometimes  and  watch  the  falling 
motes  of  dust,  and  rub  them  off  his  smooth  white  hand  or  glossy 
linen :  Mr.  Carker  the  Manager,  sly  of  manner,  sharp  of  to-'th, 
soft  of  foot,  watchful  of  eye,  oily  of  tongue,  cruel  of  heart,  nice 
of  habit,  sat  with  a  dainty  steadfastness  and  patience  at  his 
work,  as  if  he  were  waiting  at  a  mouse's  hole. 

At  length  the  letters  were  disposed  of,  excepting  one  which 
he  reserved  for  a  particular  audience.  Having  locked  the 
more  confidential  correspondence  in  a  drawer,  Mr.  Carker  the 
Manager  rang  his  bell. 

"  Why  do  you  answer  it  ?  "  was  his  reception  of  his  brother. 

"  The  messenger  is  out,  and  I  am  the  next,"  was  the  sub- 
missive reply. 

"  You  are  the  next  ?  "  muttered  the  Manager.  "  Yes  ! 
Creditable  to  me  !     There  !  " 

Pointing  to  the  heaps  of  opened  letters,  he  turned  disdain- 
fully away,  in  his  elbow-chair,  and  broke  the  seal  of  that  one 
which  he  held  in  his  hand. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  trouble  you,  James,"  said  the  brother,  gath- 
ering them  up,  "  but " 

"  Oh  !  you  have  something  to  say.     I  knew  that.     Well  ?  " 

Mr.  Carker  the  Manager  did  not  raise  his  eyes  or  turn  them 
on  his  brother,  but  kept  them  on  his  letter,  though  without 
opening  it. 

"  Well  ?  "  he  repeated  sharply. 

"  I  am  uneasy  about  Harriet." 

"  Harriet  who  ?  what  Harriet  ?  I  know  nobody  of  that 
name." 

"  She  is  not  well,  and  has  changed  very  much  of  late." 

"  She  changed  very  much,  a  great  many  years  ago,"  replied 
the  Manager  ;  "  and  that  is  all  1  have  to  say." 

"  I  think  if  you  would  hear  me — " 

"  Why  should  I  hear  you.  Brother  John  ?  "  returned  the 
Manager,  laying  a  sarcastic  emphasis  on  those  two  words,  and 
throwing  up  his  head,  but  not  lifting  his  eyes.  "  I  tell  you, 
Harriet  Carker  made  her  choice  many  years  ago  between  her 
two  brothers.  She  may  repent  it,  but  she  must  abide  by  it." 
"  Don't  mistake  me.     I  do  not  say  she  dpes  repent  it     It 


^90  DOMBEY  AND  SOAT. 

would  be  black  ingratitude  in  me  to  hint  at  such  a  thing,'*  re- 
turned the  other.  "  I'hough  believe  me,  James,  I  am  as  sorry 
for  her  sacrifice  as  you." 

"  As  I  ?  "  exclaimed  the  Manager.     "As  I  ? " 

•'As  sorry  for  her  choice — for  what  you  call  her  choice — as 
you  are  angry  at  it,"  said  the  Junior. 

"Angry?"  repeated  the  other,  with  a  wide  show  of  his 
teeth. 

"  Displeased.  Whatever  word  you  like  best.  You  know 
my  meaning.     There  is  no  offence  in  my  intention." 

"There  is  offence  in  everything  you  do,"  replied  his  brother, 
glancing  at  him  with  a  sudden  scowl,  which  in  a  moment  gave 
place  to  a  wider  smile  than  the  last.  "  Carr}'  those  papers 
away,  if  you  please.     I  am  busy." 

His  politeness  was  so  much  more  cutting  than  his  wrath, 
that  the  Junior  went  to  the  door.  But  stopping  at  it,  and  look- 
ing round,  he  said  : 

"  When  Harriet  tried  in  vain  to  plead  for  me  with  you,  on 
your  first  just  indignation,  and  my  first  disgrace  ;  and  when  she 
left  you  James  to  follow  my  broken  fortunes,  and  devote  her- 
self, in  her  mistaken  affection,  to  a  ruined  brother,  because 
without  her  he  had  no  one,  and  was  lost ;  she  was  young  and 
pretty.  I  think  if  you  could  see  her  now — if  you  would  go  and 
see  her — she  would  move  your  admiration  and  compassion." 

The  Manager  inclmed  his  head,  and  showed  his  teeth,  as 
who  should  say,  in  answer  to  some  careless  small-talk,  "  Dear 
me !     Is  that  the  case  ? "  but  said  never  a  word. 

"  We  thought  in  those  days :  you  and  I  both :  that  she 
would  marry  young,  and  lead  a  happy  and  light-hearted  life," 
pursued  the  other.  "  Oh  if  you  knew  how  cheerfully  she  cast 
those  hopes  away ;  how  cheerfully  she  has  gone  forward  on  the 
path  she  took,  and  never  once  iooked  back  ;  you  never  could 
say  again  that  her  name  was  strange  in  your  ears.     Never  !  " 

Again  the  Manager  inclined  his  head,  and  showed  his  teeth, 
and  seemed  to  say,  "  Remarkable  indeed  !  You  quite  surprise 
me!  "     And  again  he  uttered  never  a  word. 

"  May  I  go  on  ?  "  said  John  Carker,  mildly. 

"  On  your  way  ?  "  replied  his  smiling  brother.  "If  you  will 
have  the  goodness." 

John  Carker,  with  a  sigh,  was  passing  slowly  out  at  the 
door,  when  his  brother's  voice  detained  him  for  a  moment  on 
the  threshold. 

"  If  she  has  gone,  and  goes,  her  own  way  cheerfully,"  he 
faid,  throwing  the  still  unfolded  letter  on  his  desk,  and  putting 


A  TRIFLE  OF  MANAGEMENT.  ^Ot 

his  hands  firmly  in  his  pockets,  "you  may  tell  her  that  I  go  as 
cheerfully  on  mine.  If  she  has  never  once  looked  back,  you 
may  tell  her  that  I  have,  sometimes,  to  recall  her  taking  part 
with  you,  and  that  my  resolution  is  no  easier  to  wear  av/ay  ;'* 
he  smiled  very  sweetly  here  ;  *'  than  marble." 

"  I  tell  her  nothing  of  you.  We  never  speak  about  you. 
Once  a  year,  on  your  birthday,  Harriet  says  always,  '  Let  us 
remember  James  by  name,  and  wish  him  happy,'  but  we  say  no 
more." 

"  Tell  it  then,  if  you  please,"  returned  the  other,  "  to  your- 
self. You  can't  repeat  it  too  often,  as  a  lesson  to  you  to  avoid 
the  subject  in  speaking  to  me.  I  know  no  Harriet  Carker. 
There  is  no  such  person.  You  may  have  a  sister  ;  '--ake  much 
of  her.     I  have  none." 

Mr.  Carker  the  Manager  took  up  the  letter  again,  and 
waved  it  with  a  smile  of  mock  courtesy  towards  the  door.  Un- 
folding it  as  his  brother  withdrew,  and  looking  darkly  after  him 
as  he  left  the  room,  he  once  more  turned  round  in  his  elbow- 
chair,  and  applied  himself  to  a  diligent  perusal  of  its  contents. 

It  was  in  the  writing  of  his  great  chief,  Mr.  Dombey,  and 
dated  from  Leamington.  Though  he  was  a  quick  reader  of  al' 
«ther  letters,  Mr.  Carker  read  tnis  slowly  ;  vreighing  the  words 
as  he  went,  and  bringing  every  tooth  in  his  head  to  bear  upon 
them.  When  he  had  read  it  through  once,  he  turned  it  over 
again,  ana  picked  out  these  passages.  *  I  find  myself  benefited 
by  the  change,  and  am  not  yet  inclined  to  name  any  time  for 
my  return.'  *  I  wish,  Carker,  you  would  arrange  to  come  down 
once  and  see  me  here,  and  let  me  know  how  things  are  going 
on,  in  person.'  *  I  omitted  to  speak  to  you  about  young  Gay. 
If  not  gone  per  Son  and  Heir,  or  if  Son  and  Heir  still  lying  in 
the  Docks,  appoint  some  other  young  man  and  keep  him  in  th6 
City  for  the  present.  I  am  not  decided.'  "  Now  that's  unfor- 
tunate !  "  said  Mr.  Carker  the  Manager,  expanding  his  mouth, 
as  it  were  made  of  India-rubber ;  "  for  he  is  far  away." 

Still  that  passage  which  was  in  a  postscript,  attracted  his 
attention  and  his  teeth,  once  more. 

"  I  think,"  he  said,  "  my  good  friend  Captain  Cuttle  men- 
tioned something  about  being  towed  along  in  the  wake  of  that 
day.     What  a  pity  he's  so  far  away  !  " 

He  refolded  the  letter  and  was  sitting  trifling  with  it,  stand- 
ing it  long-wise  and  broad-wise  on  his  table,  and  turning  it  over 
and  over  on  all  sides — doing  pretty  much  the  same  thing  per- 
haps, by  its  contents — when  Mr,  Perch  the  messenger  knocked 
softly  at  the  door,  and  coming  in  or  tiptoe,  bending  his  body 


JQ2  DOMBEY  ANh  SON". 

at  every  step  as  if  it  were  the  delight  of  his  life   to  bow,  laid 
some  papers  on  the  table. 

'-  WorJd  you  please  to  be  engaged,  Sir  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Perch, 
rubbing  his  hands,  and  deferentially  putting  his  head  on  one 
side,  like  a  man  who  felt  he  had  no  business  to  hold  it  up  in 
such  a  presence,  and  would  keep  it  as  much  out  of  the  way  as 
possible. 

"  Who  wants  me  ?  " 

"Why,  Sir,"  said  Mr.  Perch,  in  a  soft  voice,  "really  no 
body,  Sir,  to  speak  of  at  present.  Mr.  Gills  the  Ship's  Instru- 
ment-maker, Sir,  has  looked  in,  about  a  little  matter  of  pay- 
ment, he  says  :  but  I  mentioned  to  him,  Sir,  that  you  was 
engaged  several  deep  ;  several  deep." 

Mr.  Perch  coughed  once  behind  his  hand,  and  waited  for 
further  orders. 

"  Anybody  else  ?  " 

"  Well,  Sir,"  said  Mr.  Perch,  "  I  wouldn't  of  my  own  self 
take  the  liberty  of  mentioning,  Sir,  that  there  was  anybody 
else  ;  but  that  same  young  lad  that  was  here  yesterday.  Sir, 
«nd  last  week  has  been  hanging  about  the  place  ;  and  it  looks, 
'Sir,"  added  Mr.  Perch,  stopping  to  shut  the  door,  *'  dreadful 
unbusiness-like  to  see  him  whistling  to  the  sparrows  down  the 
court,  and  making  of  'em  answer  him." 

"  You  said  he  wanted  something  to  do,  didn't  you,  Perch  ?  " 
asked  Mr.  Carker,  leaning  back  in  his  chair  and  looking  a',  that 
officer. 

"  Why,  Sir,"  said  Mr.  Perch,  coughing  behind  his  hand 
again,  "  his  expression  certainly  were  that  he  was  in  wants  of  a 
sitiwation,  and  that  he  considered  something  might  be  done  for 
him  about  the  Docks,  being  used  to  fishing  with  a  rod  and 
line :  but — "  Mr.  Perch  shook  his  head  very  dubiously  indeed. 
"  What  does  he  say  when  he  comes  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Carker. 
"  Indeed,  Sir,"  said  Mr.  Perch,  coughing  another  cough  be- 
hind his  hand,  which  was  always  his  resource  as  an  expression 
of  humility  when  nothing  else  occurred  to  him,  "  his  observa- 
tion generally  air  that  he  would  humbly  wish  to  see  one  of  the 
gentlemen,  and  that  he  wants  to  earn  a  living.  But  you  see, 
Sir,"  added  Perch,  dropping  his  voice  to  a  whisper,  and  turn- 
ing, in  the  inviolable  nature  of  his  confidence,  to  give  the  door 
a  thrust  with  his  hand  and  knee,  as  if  that  would  shut  it  any 
more  when  it  was  shut  already,  "it's  hardly  to  be  bore.  Sir, 
that  a  common  lad  like  that  should  come  a  prowling  here,  and 
saying  that  his  mother  nursed  our  House's  young  gentleman, 
and  that  he  hopes  our  House  will  give  him  a  chance  on  that 


A   TRIFLE  OF  MANAGEMENT. 


293 


account.  I  am  sure,  Sir,"  observed  Mr.  Perch,  "  that  although 
Mrs.  Perch  was  at  that  time  nursing  as  thriving  a  little  girl, 
Sir,  as  we've  ever  took  the  liberty  of  adding  to  our  family,  I 
wouldn't  have  made  so  free  as  drop  a  hint  of  her  being  capable 
of  imparting  nourishment,  not  if  it  was  never  so ! " 

Mr.  Carker  grinned  at  him  like  a  shark,  but  in  an  absent, 
thoughtful  manner, 

"  Whether,"  submitted  Mr.  Perch,  after  a  short  silence,  and 
another  cough,  "it  mightn't  be  best  for  me  to  tell  him,  that  if 
he  was  seen  here  any  more  he  would  be  given  into  custody; 
and  to  keep  to  it !  With  respect  to  bodily  fear,"  said  Mr.  Perch, 
"  I'm  so  timid,  myself,  by  nature.  Sir,  and  my  nerves  is  so 
unstrung  by  Mrs.  Perch's  state,  that  I  could  take  my  affidavit 
easy." 

"  Let  me  see  this  fellow,  Perch,"  said  Mr.  Carker.  "Bring 
him  in  !  " 

"Yes  Sir.  Begging  your  pardon,  Sir,"  said  Mr.  Perch, 
hesitating  at  the  door,  "he's  rough.  Sir,  in  appearance." 

"  Never  mind.  If  he's  there,  bring  him  in.  I'll  see  Mr. 
Gills  directly.     Ask  him  to  wait." 

Mr.  Perch  bowed  ;  and  shutting  the  door,  as  precisely  and 
carefully  as  if  he  were  not  coming  back  for  a  week,  went  on 
his  quest  among  the  sparrows  in  the  court.  While  he  was 
gone,  Mr.  Carker  assumed  his  favorite  attitude  before  the  fire- 
place, and  stood  looking  at  the  door  ;  presenting,  with  his 
under  lip  tucked  into  the  smile  that  showed  his  whole  row  of 
upper  teeth,  a  singularly  crouching  appearance. 

The  messenger  was  not  long  in  returning,  followed  by  a 
pair  of  heavy  boots  that  came  bumping  along  the  passage  like 
boxes.  With  the  unceremonious  words  "  Come  along  with 
you  !  " — a  very  unusual  form  of  introduction  from  his  lips — 
Mr.  Perch  then  ushered  into  the  presence  a  strong-built  lad  of 
fifteen,  with  a  round  red  face,  a  round  sleek  head,  round  black 
eyes,  round  limbs,  and  round  body,  who,  to  carry  out  the  gen- 
eral rotundity  of  his  appearance,  had  a  round  hat  in  his  hand, 
without  a  particle  of  brim  to  it. 

Obedient  to  a  nod  from  Mr.  Carker,  Perch  had  no  sooner 
conlronted  the  visitor  with  that  gentleman  than  he  withdrew. 
The  moment  they  were  face  to  face  alone,  Mr.  Carker,  without 
a  word  of  preparation,  took  him  by  the  throat,  and  shook  him 
until  his  head  seemed  loose  upon  his  shoulders. 

The  boy,  who  in  the  midst  of  his  astonishment  could  not 
help  staring  wildly  at  the  gentleman  with  so  many  white  teeth 
Vho  was  choking  him,  and  at  the  office  walls,  as  though  dc 


ag4  DOMBEY  AND  SON 

termined,  if  he  were  choked,  that  his  last  look  should  be  at  the 
mysteries  for  his  intrusion  into  which  he  was  paying  such  a 
severe  penalty,  at  last  contrived  to  utter — 

"  Come,  Sir  !     You  let  me  alone,  will  you  !  " 

"  Let  you  alone  !  "  said  Mr.  Carker.  "  What !  I  have  got 
you,  have  I  ?  "  There  was  no  doubt  of  that,  and  tightly  too. 
♦'  You  dog,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  through  his  set  jaws,  "  I'll  stran- 
gle you  ! " 

Biler  whimpered,  would  he  though  ?  oh  no  he  wouldn't — 
and  what  was  he  doing  of — and  why  didn't  he  strangle  some- 
body of  his  own  size  and  not  Jmn  :  but  Biler  was  quelled  by 
the  extraordinary  nature  of  his  reception,  and,  as  his  head 
became  stationary,  and  he  looked  the  gentleman  in  the  face, 
or  rather  in  the  teeth,  and  saw  him  snarling  at  him,  he  so  far 
forgot  his  manhood  as  to  cry. 

"  I  haven't  done  nothing  to  you.  Sir,"  said  Biler,  otherwise 
Rob,  otherwise  Grinder,  and  always  Toodle. 

"  You  young  scoundrel !  "  replied  Mr.  Carker,  slowly  releas- 
ing him,  and  moving  back  a  step  into  his  favorite  position, 
"  What  do  you  mean  by  daring  to  come  here  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  mean  no  harm.  Sir,"  whimpered  Rob,  putting  one 
hand  to  his  throat,  and  the  knuckles  of  the  other  to  his  eyes. 
"I'll  never  come  again.  Sir,  I  only  wanted  work." 

"  Work,  young  Cain  that  you  are  !  "  repeated  Mr.  Carker, 
eyeing  him  narrowly.  "  An't  you  the  idlest  vagabond  in  Lon- 
don ? " 

The  impeachment,  while  it  much  affected  Mr.  Toodle 
Junior,  attached  to  his  character  so  justly,  that  he  could  not 
say  a  word  in  denial.  He  stood  looking  at  the  gentleman, 
therefore,  with  a  frightened,  self-convicted,  and  remorseful  air. 
As  to  his  looking  at  him,  it  may  be  observed  that  he  was  fas- 
cinated by  Mr.  Carker,  and  never  took  his  round  eyes  off  him 
for  an  instant. 

"  An't  you  a  thief?  "  said  Mr.  Carker,  with  his  hands  be- 
hind him  in  his  pockets. 

"  No,  Sir,"  pleaded  Rob. 

"  You  are  !  "  said  Mr.  Carker. 

"  I  ain't  indeed,  Sir,"  whimpered  Rob.  "  I  never  did  such 
a  thing  as  thieve,  Sir,  if  you'll  believe  me.  I  know  I've  been 
going  wrong,  Sir,  ever  since  I  took  to  bird-catching  and  walk- 
ing-matching. I'm  sure  a  cove  might  think,"  said  Mr.  Toodle 
Junior,  with  a  burst  of  penitence,  "  that  singing  birds  was 
innocent  company,  but  nobody  knows  what  harm  is  in  them 
little  creatures  and  wliat  they  ))ring.s  you  down  to." 


A   fkiFLE  OF  MANAGEMEiYT.  295 

They  seemed  to  have  brought  Jiini  down  to  a  velveteen 
jacket  and  trousers  very  much  the  worse  for  wear,  a  particu- 
larly small  red  waistcoat  like  a  gorget,  an  interval  of  blue 
check,  and  the  hat  before  mentioned. 

"  I  ain't  been  home  twenty  times  since  them  birds  got  their 
will  of  me,"  said  Rob,  "  and  that's  ten  months.  How  can  1 
go  home  when  everybody's  miserable  to  see  me  !  I  wonder," 
said  Biler,  blubbering  outright,  and  smearing  his  eyes  with  his 
coat-cufif,  "  that  I  haven't  been  and  drowned  myself  over  and 
over  again." 

All  of  which,  including  his  expression  of  surprise  at  not 
having  achieved  this  last  scarce  performance,  the  boy  said,  just 
as  if  the  teeth  of  Mr.  Carker  drew  it  out  of  him,  and  he  had  no 
power  of  concealing  anything  with  that  battery  of  attraction  -n 
full  play. 

"  You're  a  nice  young  gentleman  !  "  said  Mr.  Carker,  shak- 
ing his  head  at  him.  "  There's  hemp-seed  sown  for  you,  my 
fine  fellow !  " 

"  I'm  sure.  Sir,"  returned  the  wretched  Biler,  blubbering 
igain,  and  again  having  recourse  to  his  coat-cuff :  "  I  shouldn't 
care,  sometimes,  if  it  was  growed  too.  My  misfortunes  all 
began  in  wagging,  Sir ;  but  what  could  I  do,  exceptin'  wag  ? ' 

"  Excepting  what  ?  "  said  Mr.  Carker. 

"  Wag,  Sir.     Wagging  from  school." 

"  Do  you  mean  pretending  to  go  there,  and  not  going  ?  " 
said  Mr.  Carker. 

"Yes,  Sir,  that's  wagging.  Sir,"  returned  the  quondam 
Grinder,  much  affected.  "I  was  chivied  through  the  streets, 
Sir,  when  I  went  there,  and  pounded  when  I  got  there.  So  I 
wagged  and  hid  myself,  and  that  began  it." 

"And  you  mean  to  tell  me,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  taking  him 
by  the  throat  again,  holding  him  out  at  arm's-length,  and  sur- 
veying him  in  silence  for  some  moments,  "  that  you  want  a 
place,  do  you  ?  " 

"  I  should  be  thankful  to  be  tried,  Sir,"  returned  Toodle 
junior,  faintly. 

Mr.  Carker  the  Manager  pushed  him  backward  into  a  cor- 
ner— the  boy  submitted  quietly,  hardly  venturing  to  breathe, 
and  never  once  removing  his  eyes  from  his  face — and  rang  the 
bell. 

"  Tell  Mr.  Gills  to  come  here." 

Mr.  Perch  was  too  deferential  to  express  surprise  or  recog- 
nition of  the  figure  in  the  corner :  and  Uncle  So)  appeared 
immediately. 


i^  DOMBE  Y  AND  SON. 

"  Mr.  Gills  !  "  said  Carker,  with  a  smile,  "  sit  down.  How 
do  you  do  ?     You  continue  to  enjoy  your  health,  I  hope  ?  " 

"Thank  you.  Sir,"  returned  Uncle  Sol,  taking  out  his 
pocket-book,  and  handing  over  some  notes  as  he  spoke. 
"Nothing  ails  me  in  body  but  old  age.     Twenty-five,  Sir." 

"You  are  as  punctual  and  exact,  Mr.  Gills,"  replied  the 
smiling  Manager,  taking  a  paper  from  one  of  his  many  drawers, 
and  making  an  endorsement  on  it,  while  Uncle  Sol  looked 
over  him,  "  as  one  of  your  own  chronometers.     Quite  right." 

"  The  Son  and  Heir  has  not  been  spoken,  I  find  by  the 
list,  Sir,  said  Uncle  Sol,  with  a  slight  addition  to  the  usual 
tremor  in  his  voice. 

"  The  Son  and  Heir  has  not  been  spoken,"  returned  Carker. 
"  There  seems  to  have  been  tempestuous  weather,  Mr.  Gills, 
and  she  has  probably  been  driven  out  of  her  course." 

"  She  is  safe,  I  trust  in  Heaven  !  "  said  Old  Sol. 

"  She  is  safe,  I  trust  in  Heaven  !  "  assented  Mr.  Carker  in 
that  voiceless  manner  of  his  :  which  made  the  observant  young 
Toodle  trerr.ole  again.  "  Mr.  Gills,"  he  added  aloud,  throwing 
himself  back  in  his  chair,  "  you  must  miss  your  nephew  very 
much  1 " 

Uncle  Sol,  standing  by  him,  shook  his  head  and  heaved  a 
deep  sigh. 

"  Mr.  Gills,"  said  Carker,  with  his  soft  hand  playing  round 
his  mouth,  and  looking  up  into  the  Instrument-maker's  face, 
"  it  would  be  company  to  you  to  have  a  young  fellow  in  your 
shop  just  now,  and  it  would  be  obliging  mc  if  you  would  give 
one  house-room  for  the  present.  No,  to  be  sure,"  he  added 
quickly,  in  anticipation  of  what  the  old  man  was  going  to  say, 
"  there's  not  much  business  doing  there,  I  know  ;  but  you  can 
make  him  clean  the  place  out,  polish  up  the  instruments ; 
drudge,  Mr.  Gills.     That's  the  lad  !  " 

Sol  Gills  pulled  down  his  spectacles  from  his  forehead  to 
his  eyes,  and  looked  at  Toodle  Junior  standing  upright  in  the 
corner  :  his  head  presenting  the  appearance  (which  it  always 
did)  of  having  been  newly  drawn  out  of  a  bucket  of  cold  water  ; 
his  small  waistcoat  rising  and  falling  quickly  in  the  play  of  his 
emotions;  and  his  eyes  intently  fixed  on  Mr.  Carker,  without 
the  least  reference  to  his  proposed  master. 

"Will  you  give  him  house-room,  Mr.  Gills?"  said  the 
Manager. 

Old  Sol,  without  being  quite  enthusiastic  on  the  subject, 
replied  that  he  was  glad  of  any  opportunity,  however  slight,  to 
oblige  Mr.  Carker,  whose  wish  on  such  a  point  was  a  command 


A   TRIFLE  OF  MANAGEMENT.  297 

and  that  the  Wooden  Midshipman  would  consider  himself 
happy  to  receive  in  his  berth  any  visitor  of  Mr,  Carker's 
selecting. 

Mr.  Carker  bared  himself  to  the  tops  and  bottoms  of  his 
gums :  making  the  watchful  Toodle  Junior  tremble  more  and 
more  :  and  acknowledged  the  Instrument-maker's  politeness  in 
his  most  affable  manner. 

"  I'll  dispose  of  him  so,  then,  Mr.  Gills,''  he  answered, 
rising,  and  shaking  the  old  man  by  the  hand,  "  until  I  make 
up  my  mind  what  to  do  with  him,  and  what  he  deserves.  As  I 
consider  myself  responsible  for  him,  Mr.  Gills,"  here  he  smiled 
a  wide  smile  at  Rob,  who  shook  before  it :  "I  shall  be  glad  if 
you'll  look  sharply  after  him,  and  report  his  behavior  to  me. 
I'll  ask  a  question  or  two  of  his  parents  as  I  ride  home  this 
afternoon — respectable  people — to  confirm  some  particulars  in 
his  own  account  of  himself ;  and  that  done,  Mr.  Gills,  I'll  send 
him  round  to  you  to-morrow  morning.     Good-b'ye  !  " 

His  smile  at  parting  was  so  full  of  teeth,  that  it  confused 
old  Sol,  and  made  him  vaguely  uncomfortable.  He  went  home, 
thinking  of  raging  seas,  foundering  ships,  drowning  men,  an 
ancient  bottle  of  Madeira  never  brought  to  light,  and  other 
dismal  matter. 

"  Now,  boy !  "  said  Mr.  Carker,  putting  his  hand  on  young 
Toodle's  shoulder,  and  bringing  him  out  into  the  middle  of  the 
room.     "  You  have  heard  me  .?  " 

Rob  said  "  Yes,  Sir." 

"Perhaps  you  understand,"  pursued  his  patron,  "that  if 
you  ever  deceive  or  play  tricks  with  me,  you  had  better  have 
drowned  yourself,  indeed,  once  for  all,  before  you  came  here  ?  " 

There  was  nothing  in  any  branch  of  mental  acquisition  that 
Rob  seemed  to  understand  better  than  that. 

"  If  you  have  lied  to  me,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  "  in  anything, 
never  come  in  my  way  again.  If  not,  you  may  let  me  find  you 
waiting  for  me  somewhere  near  your  mother's  house  this  after- 
noon. I  shall  leave  this  at  five  o'clock,  and  ride  there  on 
horseback.     Now,  give  me  the  address." 

Rob  repeated  it  slowly,  as  Mr.  Carker  wrote  it  down,  llob 
even  spelt  it  over  a  second  time,  letter  by  letter,  as  if  he 
thought  that  the  omission  of  a  dot  or  scratch  would  lead  to  his 
destmction.  Mr.  Carker  then  handed  him  out  of  the  room; 
and  Rob,  keeping  his  round  eyes  fixed  upon  his  patron  to  the 
last,  vanished  for  the  time  being. 

Mr.  Carker  the  Manager  did  a  great  deal  of  business  in  the 
course  of  the  day,  and  bestowed  his  teeth  upon  a  ^reat  many 


298  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

people.  In  the  office,  in  the  couri,  in  the  street,  and  on 
'Change,  they  gUstened  and  bristled  to  a  terrible  extent.  Five 
o'clock  arriving,  and  with  it  Mr.  Carker's  bay  horse,  they  got 
on  horseback,  and  went  gleaming  up  Cheapside. 

As  no  one  can  easily  ride  fast,  even  if  inclined  to  do  so, 
through  the  press  and  throng  of  the  City  at  that  hour,  and  as 
Mr.  Carker  was  not  inclined,  he  went  leisurely  along,  picking 
his  way  among  the  carts  and  carriages,  avoiding  whenever  he 
could  the  wetter  and  more  dirty  places  in  the  over-watered 
road,  and  taking  infinite  pains  to  keep  himself  and  his  steed 
clean.  Glancing  at  the  passers-by  while  he  was  thus  ambling 
on  his  way,  he  suddenly  encountered  the  round  eyes  of  the 
sleek-headed  Rob  intently  fixed  upon  his  face  as  if  they  had 
never  been  taken  off,  while  the  boy  himself,  with  a  pocket- 
handkerchief  twisted  up  like  a  speckled  eel  and  girded  round 
his  waist,  made  a  very  conspicuous  demonstration  of  being  pre- 
pared to  attend  upon  him,  at  whatever  pace  he  might  think 
proper  to  go. 

This  attention,  however  flattering,  being  one  of  an  unusual 
kind,  and  attracting  some  notice  from  the  other  passengers, 
Mr.  Carker  took  advantage  of  a  clearer  thoroughfare  and  a 
cleaner  road,  and  broke  into  a  trot.  Rob  immediately  did  the 
same.  Mr.  Carker  presently  tried  a  canter  ;  Rob  was  still  in 
attendance.  Then  a  short  gallop  ;  it  was  all  one  to  the  boy. 
Whenever  Mr.  Carker  turned  his  eyes  to  that  side  of  the  road, 
he  still  saw  Toodle  Junior  holding  his  course,  apparently  with- 
out distress,  and  working  himself  along  by  the  elbows  after  the 
most  approved  manner  of  professional  gentlemen  who  get  ovei 
the  ground  for  wagers. 

Ridiculous  as  this  attendance  was,  it  was  a  sign  of  an 
influence  established  over  the  boy,  and  therefore  Mr.  Carker, 
affecting  not  to  notice  it,  rode  away  into  the  neighborhood  of 
Mr.  Toodle's  house.  On  his  slackening  his  pace  here,  Rob 
appeared  before  him  to  point  out  the  turnings ;  and  when  he 
called  to  a  man  at  a  neighboring  gateway  to  hold  his  horse, 
pending  his  visit  to  the  Buildings  that  had  succeeded  Staggs's 
Gardens,  Rob  dutifully  held  the  stirrup,  while  the  Manager  dis- 
mounted. 

"  J^ow,  Sir,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  taking  him  by  the  shoulder, 
''  come  along  !  " 

The  prodigal  son  was  evidently  nervous  of  visiting  the 
parental  abode  ;  but  Mr.  Carker  pushing  him  on  before,  he  had 
nothing  for  it  but  to  open  the  right  door,  and  suffer  himself  to 
l>e  walked  into  the  micLst  of  his  brothers  and  sisters,  mustered 


A  TRIFLE  OF  MANAGEMENT. 


295 


\n  overwhelming  force  round  the  family  tea-table.  At  sight  of 
the  prodigal  in  the  grasp  of  a  stranger,  these  tender  relations 
united  in  a  general  howl,  which  smote  upon  the  prodigal's 
breast  so  sharply  when  he  saw  his  mother  stand  up  among 
them,  pale  and  trembling  with  the  baby  in  her  arms,  that  he 
lent  his  own  voice  to  the  chorus. 

Nothing  doubting  now  that  the  stranger,  if  not  Mr.  Ketch 
in  person,  was  one  of  that  company,  the  whole  of  the  young 
family  wailed  the  louder,  while  its  more  infantine  members, 
unable  to  control  the  transports  of  emotion  appertaining  to 
their  time  of  life,  threw  themselves  on  their  backs  like  young 
birds  when  terrified  by  a  hawk,  and  kicked  violently.  At 
length,  poor  Polly  making  herself  audible,  said,  with  quivermg 
lips,  "  Oh  Rob,  my  poor  boy,  what  have  you  done  at  last !  " 

"  Nothing  mother,"  cried  Rob,  in  a  piteous  voice,  "  ask  the 
gentleman  I " 

"  Don't  be  alarmed,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  "  I  want  to  do  him 
good." 

At  this  announcement,  Polly,  who  had  not  cried  yet,  began 
to  do  so.  The  elder  Toodles,  who  appeared  to  have  been 
meditating  a  rescue,  unclenched  their  fists.  The  younger  Too- 
dles clustered  round  their  mother's  gown,  and  peeped  from 
under  their  own  chubby  arms  at  their  desperado  brother  and 
his  unknown  friend.  Everybody  blessed  the  gentleman  with 
the  beautiful  teeth,  who  wanted  to  do  good. 

"  This  fellow,"  said  Mr.  Carker  to  Polly,  giving  him  a  gei> 
tie  shake,  "  is  your  son,  eh.  Ma'am  ? " 

"Yes,  Sir,"  sobbed  Polly,  with  a  curtsey;  *'yes.  Sir." 

*' A  bad  son,  I  am  afraid  ?  "  said  Mr.  Carker. 

"  Never  a  bad  son  to  me.  Sir,"  returned  Polly. 

"  To  whom  then  ? "  demanded  Mr.  Carker. 

"He  has  been  a  little  wild,  Sir,"  replied  Polly,  checking 
the  baby,  who  was  making  convulsive  efforts  with  his  arms  and 
legs  to  launch  himself  on  Biler,  through  the  ambient  air,  **  and 
has  gone  with  wrong  companions :  but  I  hope  he  has  seen  the 
misery  of  that.  Sir,  and  will  do  well  again." 

Mr.  Carker  looked  at  Polly,  and  the  clean  room,  and  the 
clean  children,  and  the  simple  Toodle  face,  combined  of  father 
and  mother,  that  was  reflect  and  repeated  everywhere  about 
him — and  seemed  to  have  achieved  the  real  purpose  of  his 
visit. 

*'  Your  husband,  I  take  it,  is  not  at  home  ?  "  he  said. 

'  No,  Sir,"  replied  Polly.  "  He's  down  the  line  at  presr 
ent." 


300  DOME EY  AND  SOX. 

The  prodigal  Rob  seemed  very  much  relieved  to  hear  it ; 
though  still  in  the  absorption  of  all  his  faculties  in  his  patron, 
he  hardly  took  his  eyes  from  Mr.  Carker's  face,  unless  for  a 
moment  at  a  time  to  steal  a  sorrowful  glance  at  his  mother. 

"Then,"  said  Mr.  Carker.  "  I'll  tell  you  how  I  have  stum- 
bled on  this  boy  of  yours,  and  who  I  am,  and  what  I  am  going 
to  do  for  him." 

This  Mr.  Carker  did,  in  his  own  way  ;  saying  that  he  at 
first  intended  to  have  accumulated  nameless  terrors  on  his  pre- 
sumptous  head,  for  coming  to  the  whereabouts  of  Dombey  and 
Son.  That  he  had  relented,  in  consideration  of  his  youth,  his 
professed  contrition,  and  his  friends.  That  he  was  afraid  he 
took  a  rash  step  in  doing  anything  for  the  boy,  and  one  that 
might  expose  him  to  the  censure  of  the  prudent ;  but  that  he 
did  it  of  himself  and  for  himself,  and  risked  the  consequences 
single-handed  ;  and  that  his  mother's  past  connection  with  Mr. 
Dombey's  family  had  nothing  to  do  with  it,  and  that  Mr.  Dombey 
had  nothing  to  do  with  it,  but  that  he,  Mr.  Carker,  was  the  be- 
all,  and  the  end-all  of  this  business.  Taking  great  credit  to 
himself  for  his  goodness,  and  receiving  no  less  from  all  the 
family  then  present,  Mr.  Carker  signified,  indirectly  but  still 
pretty  plainly,  that  Rob's  implicit  fidelity,  attachment,  and  devo- 
tion, were  for  evermore  his  due,  and  the  least  homage  he  could 
receive.  And  with  this  great  truth  Rob  himself  was  so  impressed, 
that  standing  gazing  on  his  patron  with  tears  rolling  down  his 
cheeks,  he  nodded  his  shiny  head  until  it  seemed  almost  as 
loose  as  it  had  done  under  the  same  patron's  hands  that  morn- 
ing. 

Polly,  who  had  passed  Heaven  knows  how  many  sleepless 
nights  on  account  of  this  her  dissipated  firstborn,  and  had  not 
seen  him  for  weeks  and  weeks,  could  have  almost  kneeled  to 
Mr.  Carker  the  Manager,  as  to  a  Good  Spirit — in  spite  of  his 
teeth.  But  Mr.  Carker  rising  to  depart,  she  only  thanked  him 
with  her  mother's  prayers  and  blessings  ;  thanks  so  rich  when 
paid  out  of  the  Heart's  mint,  especially  for  any  service  Mr. 
Carker  had  rendered,  that  he  might  have  given  back  a  large 
amount  of  change,  and  yet  been  overpaid. 

As  that  gentleman  made  his  way  among  the  crowding  chil- 
dren to  the  door,  Rob  retreated  on  his  mother,  and  took  her 
and  the  baby  in  the  same  repentant  hug. 

"  I'll  try  hard,  dear  mother,  now.  Upon  my  soul  I  will !  " 
said  Rob. 

"  Oh  do,  my  dear  boy  !  I  am  sure  you  will,  for  our  sakes 
and  your  own  !  "  cried  Tolly,  kissing  him.     "  But  you're  com- 


Trifle  of  imaiVAgement.  301 

ing  back  to  speak  to  me,  when  you  have  seen  the  gentleman 
away  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  mother."  Rob  hesitated,  and  looked  down. 
''  Father — when's  he  coming  home  ?  " 

"Not  till  two  o'clock  to-morrow  morning." 

"  I'll  come  back,  mother  dear  !  "  cried  Rob.  And  passing 
Lhrough  the  shrill  cry  of  his  brothers  and  sisters  in  reception 
of  this  promise,  he  followed  Mr.  Carker  out. 

"  What  !  "  said  Mr.  Carker,  who  had  heard  this.  "  You 
have  a  bad  father,  have  you  ?  " 

"  No,  sir  !  "  returned  Rob,  amazed.  "  There  ain't  a  better 
nor  a  kinder  father  going  than  mine  is." 

"  Why  don't  you  want  to  see  him  then  ? "  inquired  his 
patron. 

"  There's  such  a  difference  between  a  father  and  a  mother, 
Sir,"  said  Rob,  after  faltering  for  a  moment.  "  He  couldn't 
hardly  believe  yet  that  I  was  going  to  do  better — though  I 
know  he'd  try  to — but  a  mother — she  always  believes  what's 
good.  Sir;  at  least  I  know  my  mother  does,  God  bless  her  ! " 

Mr.  Carker's  mouth  expanded,  but  he  said  no  more  until  he 
was  mounted  on  his  horse,  and  had  dismissed  the  man  who 
held  it,  when,  looking  down  from  the  saddle  steadily  into  the 
attentive  and  watchful  face  of  the  boy,  he  said  : 

"  You'll  come  to  me  to-morrow  morning,  and  you  shall  be 
shown  where  that  old  gentleman  lives  ;  that  old  gentleman  who 
was  with  me  this  morning  ;  where  you  are  going,  as  you  heard 
me  say." 

"  Yes,  Sir,"  returned  Rob, 

"  I  have  a  great  interest  in  that  old  gentleman,  and  in  serv- 
ing him,  you  serve  me,  boy,  do  you  understand  ?  Well,"  he 
added,  interrupting  him  for  he  saw  his  round  face  brighten 
when  he  was  told  that ;  "  I  see  you  do.  I  want  to  know  all 
about  that  old  gentleman,  and  how  he  goes  on  from  day  to 
day — for  I  am  anxious  to  be  of  service  to  him — and  especially 
who  comes  there  to  see  him.     Do  you  understand  ?  " 

Rob  nodded  his  steadfast  face,  and  said  "  Yes,  Sir,"  again. 

"  I  should  like  to  know  that  he  has  friends  who  are  atten- 
tive to  him,  and  that  they  don't  desert  him — for  he  lives  very 
much  alone  now,  poor  fellow ;  but  that  they  are  fond  of  him, 
and  of  his  nephew  who  has  gone  abroad.  There  is  a  very 
young  lady  who  may  perhaps  come  to  see  him.  I  want  partic- 
ularly to  know  all  about  //*/-." 

"  I'll  take  care.  Sir,"  said  the  boy. 

"  And  take  care,"  returned  his  patron,  bending  forward  to 


302  DOMBEY  AND  SOA\ 

advance  his  grinning  face  closer  to  the  boy's,  and  pat  hini  on 
the  shoulder  with  the  handle  of  his  whip  ;  "  take  care  you  talk 
about  affairs  of  mine  to  nobody  but  me." 

"  To  nobody  in  the  world,  Sir,"  replied  Rob,  shaking  h:3 
head. 

"  Neither  there,"  said  Mr,  Carker,  pointing  to  the  place 
they  had  just  left,  "  nor  anywhere  else.  I'll  try  how  true  and 
grateful  you  can  be.  I'll  prove  you !  "  Making  this,  by  his 
display  of  teeth  and  by  the  action  of  his  head,  as  much  a  threat 
as  a  promise,  he  turned  from  Rob's  eyes,  which  were  nailed 
upon  him  as  if  he  had  won  the  boy  by  a  charm,  body  and  soul, 
and  rode  away.  But  again  becoming  conscious,  after  trotting 
a  short  distance,  that  his  devoted  henchman,  girt  as  before, 
was:  yielding  him  the  same  attendance,  to  the  great  amusement 
of  sundry  spectators,  he  reined  up,  and  ordered  him  off.  To 
insure  his  obedience,  he  turned  in  the  saddle  and  watched  him 
as  he  retired.  It  was  cui  ious  to  see  that  even  then  Rob  could 
not  keep  his  eyes  wholly  averted  from  his  patron's  face,  but, 
constantly  turning  and  turning  again  to  look  after  him,  involved 
himself  in  a  tempest  of  buffetings  and  jostlings  from  the  other 
passengers  in  the  street :  of  which,  in  the  pursuit  of  the  one 
paramount  idea,  he  was  perfectly  heedless. 

Mr.  Carker  the  Manager  rode  on  at  a  foot  pace,  with  the 
easy  air  of  one  who  had  performed  all  the  business  of  the  day 
in  a  satisfactory  manner,  and  got  it  comfortably  off  his  mind. 
Complacent  and  affable  as  man  could  be,  Mr.  Carker  picked 
his  way  along  the  streets  and  hummed  a  soft  tune  as  he  went. 
He  seemed  to  purr,  he  was  so  glad. 

And  in  some  sort,  Mr.  Carker,  in  his  fancy,  basked  upon  a 
hearth  too.  Coiled  up  snugly  at  certain  feet,  he  was  ready  for 
a  spring,  or  for  a  tear,  or  for  a  scratch,  or  for  a  velvet  touch,  as 
the  humor  took  him  and  occasion  served.  Was  there  any  bird 
in  a  cage,  that  came  in  for  a  share  of  his  regards .'' 

"A  very  young  lady!"  thought  Mr.  Carker  the  Manager, 
through  his  song.  "  Ay  !  when  I  saw  her  last,  she  was  a  little 
child.  With  dark  hair  and  eyes,  I  recollect,  and  a  good  face , 
a  very  good  face  !     I  dare  say  she's  pretty." 

More  affable  and  j^leasant  yet,  and  humming  his  song  until 
bis  many  teeth  vibrated  to  it,  Mr.  Carker  picked  his  way  along, 
and  turned  at  last  into  the  shady  street  where  Mr.  Dombey's 
house  stood.  Me  had  been  so  busy,  winding  webs  round  good 
faces,  and  obscuring  them  with  meshes,  that  he  hardly  thought 
of  being  at  this  point  of  his  ride,  until,  glancing  down  the  cold 
perspective  o{  taK  houses,  he  reined  in  his  horse  quickly  withic 


A   TRIFLE  OF  MANAGEMENT.  y^'^ 

\  few  yards  of  the  door.  But  to  explain  why  Mr.  Carker 
reined  in  his  horse  quickly,  and  what  he  looked  at  in  no  small 
surprise,  a  few  digressive  words  are  necessary. 

Mr.  Toots,  emancipated  from  the  Blimber  thraldom,  and 
coming  into  the  possession  of  a  certain  portion  of  his  worldly 
wealth,  "which,"  as  he  has  been  wont,  during  his  last  half-year's 
probation,  to  communicate  to  Mr.  Feeder  every  evening  as  a 
new  discovery,  "  the  executors  couldn't  keep  him  out  of,"  had 
applied  himself,  with  great  diligence,  to  the  science  of  Life. 
Fired  with  a  noble  emulation  to  pursue  a  brilliant  and  distin. 
guished  career,  Mr.  Toots  had  furnished  a  choice  set  of  apart' 
ments  ;  had  established  among  them  a  sporting  bower,  embel- 
lished with  the  portraits  of  winning  horses,  in  which  he  took  no 
particle  of  interest ;  and  a  divan,  which  made  him  poorly.  In 
this  delicious  abode,  Mr.  Toots  devoted  himself  to  the  cultiva- 
tion of  those  gentle  arts  which  refine  and  humanize  existence, 
his  chief  instructor  in  which  was  an  interesting  character  called 
the  Game  Chicken,  who  was  always  to  be  heard  of  at  the  bar 
of  the  Black  Badger,  wore  a  shaggy  white  great-coat  in  the 
warmest  weather,  and  knocked  Mr.  Toots  about  the  head  three 
times  a  week,  for  the  small  consideration  of  ten  and  six  per 
visit. 

The  Game  Chicken,  who  was  quite  the  Apollo  of  Mr.  Toots's 
Pantheon,  had  introduced  to  him  a  marker  who  taught  billiards, 
a  Life  Guard,  who  taught  fencing,  a  job-master,  who  taught 
riding,  a  Cornish  gentleman  who  was  up  to  anything  in  the 
athletic  line,  and  two  or  three  other  friends,  connected  no  less 
intimately  with  the  fine  ar*;?.  Under  whose  auspices  Mr.  Toots 
could  hardly  fail  to  improve  apace,  and  under  whose  tuition  he 
went  to  work. 

But  however  it  came  about,  it  came  to  pass,  even  while 
these  gentlemen  had  the  gloss  of  novelty  upon  them,  that  Mr. 
Toots  felt,  he  didn't  know  how,  unsettled  and  uneasy.  There 
were  husks  in  his  corn  that  even  Game  Chickens  couldn't  peck 
up  ;  gloomy  giants  in  his  leisure,  that  even  Game  Chickens 
couldn't  knock  down.  Nothing  seemed  to  do  Mr.  Toots  so 
much  good  as  incessantly  leaving  cards  at  Mr.  Dombey's  door. 
No  tax-gatherer  in  the  British  dominions — that  wide-spread  ter- 
ritory on  which  the  sun  never  sets,  ?nd  where  the  tax-gatherer 
never  goes  to  bed — was  more  regular  and  persevering  in  his 
calls  than  Mr,  Toots. 

Mr.  Toots  never  went  up  stairs  ;  and  always  performed  the 
san^e  ceremonies,  richly  dressed  for  the  purpose,  at  the  haU 
do<jr. 


304 


DOMBEY  AND  SOn. 


"  Oh  !  Good-morning  !  "  would  be  Mr.  Toots's  first  remark 
to  the  servant.  "  For  Mr.  Dombey,"  would  be  Mr.  Toots's 
next  remark,  as  he  handed  in  a  card.  "  For  Miss  Dombey," 
would  be  his  next,  as  he  handed  in  another. 

Mr.  Toots  would  then  turn  round  as  if  to  go  away  ;  but  the 
man  knew  him  by  this  time,  and  knew  he  woulda't. 

"  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,"  Mr.  Toots  would  say,  as  if  a 
thought  had  suddenly  descended  on  him.  "  Is  the  young 
woman  at  home  .''  " 

The  man  would  rather  think  she  was,  but  wouldn't  quite 
know.  Then  he  would  ring  a  bell  that  rang  up  stairs,  and 
would  look  up  the  staircase,  and  would  say,  yes,  she  tons  at 
home,  and  was  coming  down.  Then  Miss  Nipper  would  ap- 
pear, and  the  man  would  retire. 

"  Oh  !  How  de  do  ?  "  Mr.  Toots  would  say,  with  a  chuckle 
and  a  blush. 

Susan  would  thank  him,  and  say  she  was  very  well. 

"  How's  Diogenes  going  on  ?  "  would  be  Mr,  Toots's  second 
interrogation. 

Very  well  indeed.  Miss  Florence  was  fonder  and  fonder 
of  him  every  day.  Mr.  Toots  was  sure  to  hail  this  with  a  burst 
of  chuckles,  like  the  opening  of  a  bottle  of  some  effervescent 
beverage, 

"  Miss  Florence  is  quite  well,  Sir,"  Susan  would  add. 

"Oh,  it's  of  no  consequence,  thank'ee,"  was  the  invariable 
reply  of  Mr,  Toots  ;  and  when  he  had  said  so,  he  always  went 
away  very  fast. 

Now  it  is  certain  that  Mr.  Toots  had  a  filmy  something  in 
his  mind,  which  led  him  to  conclude  that  if  he  could  aspire  suc- 
cessfully in  the  fulness  of  time,  to  the  hand  of  Florence,  he 
would  be  fortunate  and  blest.  It  is  certain  that  Mr.  Toots,  by 
some  remote  and  round-about  road,  had  got  to  that  point,  and 
that  there  he  made  a  stand.  His  heart  was  wounded  ;  he  was 
touched  ;  he  was  in  love.  He  had  made  a  desperate  attempt, 
one  night,  and  had  sat  up  all  night  for  the  purpose,  to  write  an 
acrostic  on  Florence,  which  affected  him  to  tears  in  the  concep- 
tion. But  he  never  proceeded  in  the  execution  further  than 
the  words  "  For  when  I  gaze," — the  flow  of  imagination  in 
which  he  had  previously  written  down  the  initial  letters  of  the 
other  seven  lines,  deserting  him  at  that  point. 

Beyond  devising  that  very  artful  and  politic  measure  of 
leaving  a  card  for  Mr.  Dombey  daily,  the  brain  of  Mr.  Toots 
had  not  worked  much  in  reference  to  the  subject  tliat  held  his 
feelings  prisoner.     But  deep  consideration  at  length  assure^ 


A    TRIFLE  OF  MANAGEMENT.  305 

Mr,  Toots  that  an  important  step  to  gain,  was,  the  conciliation 
of  Miss  Susan  Nipper,  preparatory  to  giving  her  some  inkling 
of  his  state  of  mind. 

A  little  light  and  playful  gallantry  towards  this  lady  seemed 
the  means  to  employ  in  that  early  chapter  of  the  history,  for 
winning  her  to  his  interests.  Not  being  able  quite  to  make  up 
his  mind  about  it,  he  consulted  the  Chicken — without  taking 
that  gentleman  into  his  confidence  ;  merely  informing  him  tliat 
a  friend  in  Yorkshire  had  written  to  him  (Mr.  Toots)  for  his 
opinion  on  such  a  question.  The  Chicken  replying  that  his 
opinion  always  was,  "  Go  in  and  win,"  and  further,  "  When 
your  man's  before  you  and  your  work  cut  out,  go  in  and  do 
it,"  Mr.  Toots  considered  this  a  figurative  way  of  supporting 
his  own  view  of  the  case,  and  heroically  resolved  to  kiss  Miss 
Nipper  next  day. 

Upon  the  next  day,  therefore,  Mr.  Toots,  putting  into  requi- 
sition some  of  the  greatest  marvels  that  Burgess  and  Co.  had 
ever  turned  out,  went  off  to  Mr.  Dombey's  upon  this  design. 
But  his  heart  failed  him  so  much  as  he  approached  the  scene  of 
action,  that,  although  he  arrived  on  the  ground  at  three  o'clock 
in  the  afternoon,  it  was  six  before  he  knocked  at  the  door. 

Everything  happened  as  usual,  down  to  the  point  where 
Susan  said  her  young  mistress  was  well,  and  Mr.  Toots  said 
it  was  of  no  consequence.  To  her  amazement,  Mr.  Toots,  in- 
stead of  going  off,  like  a  rocket,  after  that  observation,  lingered 
and  chuckled. 

"  Perhaps  you'd  like  to  walk  upstairs.  Sir  !  "  said  Susan. 

"  Well,  I  think  I  will  come  in  ! "  said  Mr.  Toots. 

But  instead  of  walking  upstairs,  the  bold  Toots  made  an 
awkward  plunge  at  Susan  when  the  door  was  shut,  and  em- 
bracing that  fair  creature,  kissed  her  on  the  cheek. 

"  Go  along  with  you  !  "  cried  Susan,  "  or  I'll  tear  your  eyes 
out." 

"  Just  another  !  "  said  Mr.  Toots. 

"  Go  along  with  you  !  "  exclaimed  Susan,  giving  him  a  push. 
"  Innocents  like  you,  too !  Who'll  begin  next  ?  Go  along, 
Sir!" 

Susan  was  not  in  any  serious  strait,  for  she  could  hardly 
speak  for  laughing  ;  but  Diogenes,  on  the  staircase,  hearing  a 
rustling  against  the  wall,  and  a  shuffling  of  feet,  and  seeing 
through  the  banisters  that  there  was  some  contention  going  on, 
and  foreign  invasion  in  the  house,  formed  a  different  opinion, 
dashed  down  to  the  rescue  and  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  had 
Mr.  Toots  by  the  leg. 


3o6  DOMBEY  AND  SOM 

Susar.  screamed,  laughed,  opened  the  street-door,  and  ran 
down  stairs  ;  the  bold  Toots  tumbled  staggering  out  into  the 
street,  with  Diogenes  holding  on  to  one  leg  of  his  pantaloons, 
as  if  Burgess  and  Co.  were  his  cooks,  and  had  provided  that 
dainty  morsel  for  his  holiday  entertainment ;  Diogenes  shaken 
off,  rolled  over  and  over  in  the  dust,  got  up  again,  whirled 
round  the  giddy  Toots  and  snapped  at  him  :  and  all  this 
turmoil,  Mr,  Carker,  reining  up  his  horse  and  sitting  a  little  at 
a  distance,  saw  to  his  amazement,  issue  from  the  stately  house 
of  Mr.  Dombey. 

Mr.  Carker  remained  watching  the  discomfited  Toots,  when 
Diogenes  was  called  in,  and  the  door  shut :  and  while  that 
gentleman,  taking  refuge  in  a  door-way  near  at  hand,  bound 
up  the  torn  leg  of  his  pantaloons  with  a  costly  silk  handkerchief 
that  had  formed  part  of  his  expensive  outfit  for  the  adventure. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  Sir,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  riding  up,  with 
his  most  propitiatory  smile.     "  I  hope  you  are  not  hurt  ?  " 

"  Oh  no,  thank  you,"  replied  Mr.  Toots,  raising  his  flushed 
face,  "  it's  of  no  consequence."  Mr.  Toots  would  have  signified, 
if  he  could,  that  he  liked  it  very  much. 

"  If  the  dog's  teeth  have  entered  the  leg.  Sir — "  began 
Carker,  with  a  display  of  his  own. 

"  No,  thank  you,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  it's  all  quite  right.  It's 
very  comfortable,  thank  you." 

"  I  have  the  pleasure  of  knowing  Mr,  Dombey,"  observed 
Carker. 

"  Have  you  though  ?  "  rejoined  the  blushing  Toots. 

"  And  you  will  allow  me,  perhaps,  to  apologize,  in  his 
absence,"  said  Mr,  Carker,  taking  off  his  hat,  "  for  such  a 
misadventure,  and  to  wonder  how  it  can  possibly  have  hap- 
pened." 

Mr.  Toots  is  so  much  gratified  by  this  politeness,  and  the 
lucky  chance  of  making  friends  with  a  friend  of  Mr,  Dombey, 
that  he  pulls  out  his  card-case,  which  he  never  loses  an  oppor- 
tunity of  using,  and  hands  his  name  and  address  to  Mr.  Carker: 
who  responds  to  that  courtesy  by  giving  him  his  own,  and  with 
that  they  part. 

As  Mr,  Carker  picks  his  way  so  softly  past  the  house,  glan- 
cing up  at  the  windows,  and  trying  to  make  out  the  pensive  face 
behind  tiie  curtain  looking  at  the  children  opposite,  the  rough 
head  of  Diogenes  came  clambering  up  close  by  it,  and  the  dog. 
regardless  of  all  soothing,  barks  and  growls,  and  makes  at  him 
from  tliat  height,  as  if  he  would  spring  down  and  tear  him  limb 
from  limb, 


FLORENCE  SOLITARY.  -307 

Well  spoken,  Di,  so  near  your  Mistress!  Another,  and 
another  with  your  head  up,  your  eyes  flashing,  and  your  vexed 
mouth  worrying  itself,  for  want  of  him.  Another,  as  he  picks 
his  way  along  !     You  have  a  good  scent,  Di, — cats,  boy,  cats ! 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

FLORENCE    SOLITARY,    AND    THE    MIDSHIPMAN    MYSTERIOUS. 

Florence  lived  alone  in  the  great  dreary  house,  and  day 
succeeded  day,  and  still  she  lived  alone  ;  and  the  blank  walls 
looked  down  upon  her  with  a  vacant  stare,  as  if  they  had  a 
Gorgon-like  mind  to  stare  her  youth  and  beauty  into  stone. 

No  magic  dwelling-place  in  magic  story,  shut  up  in  the 
heart  of  a  thick  wood,  was  ever  more  solitary  and  deserted  to 
the  fancy,  than  was  her  father's  mansion  in  its  grim  reality,  as 
it  stood  lowering  on  the  street  :  always  by  night,  when  lights 
were  shining  from  neighboring  windows,  a  blot  upon  its  scanty 
brightness ;  always  by  day,  a  frown  upon  its  never-smiling 
face. 

There  were  not  two  dragon  sentries  keeping  ward  before 
the  gate  of  this  abode,  as  in  magic  legend  are  usually  found  on 
duty  over  the  wronged  innocence  imprisoned ;  but  besides  a 
glowering  visage,  with  its  thin  lips  parted  wickedly,  that  sur- 
veyed all  comers  from  above  the  archway  of  the  door,  there  was 
a  monstrous  fantasy  of  rusty  iron,  curling  and  twisting  like  a 
petrifaction  of  an  arbor  over  the  threshold,  budding  in  spikes 
and  corkscrew  points,  and  bearing,  one  on  either  side,  two 
ominous  extinguishers,  that  seemed  to  say,  "Who  enter  here, 
leave  light  behind !  "  There  were  no  talismanic  characters 
engraven  on  the  portal,  but  the  house  was  now  so  neglected  in 
appearance,  that  boys  chalked  the  railings  and  the  pavement — 
particularly  round  the  corner  where  the  side  wall  was — and 
drew  ghosts  on  the  stable  door ;  and  being  sometimes  driven 
off  by  Mi.  Towlinson,  made  portraits  of  him,  in  return,  with  his 
ears  growing  out  horizontally  from  under  his  hat.  Noise 
ceased  to  be,  within  the  shadow  of  the  roof.  The  brass  band 
that  came  into  the  street  once  a  week,  in  the  morning,  never 
brayed  a  note  in  at  those  windows  ;  but  all  such  company,  down 
to  a  poor  little  piping  organ  of  weak  intellect,  with  an  imbecile 
party  of  automaton  dancers,  waltzing;  in  and  out  at  folding-doors, 


3o8  DOMBEV  AND  SON. 

fell  off  from  it  with  one  accord,  and  shunned  it  as  a  hopeless 
place. 

The  spell  upon  it  was  more  wasting  than  the  spell  that  used 
to  set  enchanted  houses  sleeping  once  upon  a  time,  but  left 
their  waking  freshness  unimpaired. 

The  passive  desolation  of  disuse  was  everywhere  silently 
manifest  about  it.  Within  doors,  curtains,  drooping  heavily, 
lost  their  old  folds  and  shapes,  and  hung  like  cumbrous  palls. 
Hecatombs  of  furniture,  still  piled  and  covered  up,  shrunk 
like  imprisoned  and  forgotten  men,  and  changed  insensibly. 
Mirrors  were  dim  as  with  the  breath  of  years.  Patterns  of 
carpets  faded  and  became  perplexed  and  faint,  like  the  memory 
of  those  years'  trifling  incidents.  Boards,  starting  at  unwonted 
footsteps,  creaked  and  shook.  Keys  rusted  in  the  locks  of 
doors.  Damp  started  on  the  walls,  and  as  the  stains  came  out, 
the  pictures  seemed  to  go  in  and  secrete  themselves.  Mildew 
and  mould  began  to  lurk  in  closets.  Fungus  trees  grew  in 
corners  of  the  cellars.  Dust  accumulated,  nobody  knew  whence 
nor  how  ;  spiders,  moths,  and  grubs  were  heard  of  every  day. 
An  explorator)'  black-beetle  now  and  then  was  found  immov- 
able upon  the  stairs,  or  in  an  upper  room,  as  wondering  how- 
he  got  there.  Rats  began  to  squeak  and  scuttle  in  the  night 
time,  through  dark  galleries  they  mined  behind  the  panelling. 

The  dreary  magnificence  of  the  state  rooms,  seen  imper- 
fectly by  the  doubtful  light  admitted  through  closed  shutters, 
would  have  answered  well  enough  for  an  enchanted  abode. 
Such  as  the  tarnished  paws  of  gilded  lions,  stealthily  put  out 
from  beneath  their  wrappers  ;  the  marble  lineaments  of  busts  on 
pedestals,  fearfully  revealing  themselves  through  veils ;  the  clocks 
that  never  told  the  time,  or,  if  wound  up  by  any  chance,  told 
it  wrong,  and  struck  unearthly  numbers,  which  are  not  upon 
the  dial  ;  the  accidental  tinklings  among  the  pendant  lustres, 
jnore  startling  than  alarm-bells;  the  softened  sounds  and  lag- 
jfgard  air  that  made  their  way  among  these  objects,  and  a  phan- 
tom crowd  of  others,  shrouded  and  hooded,  and  made  spectral 
of  shape.  But,  besides,  there  was  the  great  staircase,  where 
the  lord  of  the  place  so  rarely  set  his  foot,  and  by  which  his 
little  child  had  gone  up  to  Heaven.  There  were  other  stair- 
cases and  passages  where  no  one  went  for  weeks  together  ; 
there  w-ere  two  closed  rooms  associated  with  dead  members  of 
the  family,  and  with  whispered  recollections  of  them ;  and  to 
all  the  house  but  Florence,  there  was  a  gentle  figure  moving 
through  the  solitude  and  gloom,  tluit  gave  to  every  lifeless  thing 
a  touch  of  present  hunian  interest  and  wonder. 


PLOkENCE  SOLITARY.  309 

For  Florence  lived  alone  in  the  deserted  house,  and  day 
succeeded  day,  and  still  she  lived  alone,  and  the  cold  walls 
looked  down  upon  her  with  a  vacant  stare,  and  if  they  had  a 
Gorgon-like  mind  to  stare  her  youth  and  beauty  into  stone. 

The  grass  began  to  grow  upon  the  roof,  and  in  the  crevices 
of  the  basement  paving.  A  scaly  crumbling  vegetation  sprouted 
round  the  window-sills.  Fragments  of  mortar  lost  their  hold 
upon  the  insides  of  the  unused  chimneys,  and  came  dropping 
down.  The  two  trees  with  the  smoky  trunks  were  blighted  high 
up,  and  the  withered  branches  domineered  above  the  leaves. 
Through  the  whole  building  white  had  turned  yellow,  yellow 
nearly  black  ;  and  since  the  time  when  the  poor  lady  died,  it 
had  slowly  become  a  dark  gap  in  the  long  monotonous  street. 

But  Florence  bloomed  there,  like  the  king's  fair  daughter  in 
the  story.  Her  books,  her  music,  and  her  daily  teachers,  were 
her  only  real  companions,  Susan  Nipper  and  Diogenes  excepted  : 
of  whom  the  former,  in  her  attendance  on  the  studies  of  her 
young  mistress,  began  to  grow  quite  learned  herself,  while  the 
latter,  softened  possibly  by  the  same  influences,  would  lay  his 
head  upon  the  window-ledge,  and  placidly  open  and  shut  his 
eyes  upon  the  street,  all  through  a  summer  morning  ;  sometimes 
pricking  up  his  head  to  look  with  great  significance  after  some 
noisy  dog  in  a  cart,  who  was  barking  his  way  along,  and  some- 
times, with  an  exasperated  and  unaccountable  recollection  of 
his  supposed  enemy  in  the  neighborhood,  rushing  to  the  door, 
whence,  after  a  deafening  disturbance,  he  would  come  jogging 
back  with  a  ridiculous  complacency  that  belonged  to  him,  and 
lay  his  jaw  upon  the  window-ledge  again,  with  the  air  of  a  dog 
who  had  done  a  public  service. 

So  Florence  lived  in  her  wilderness  of  a  home,  within  the 
circle  of  her  innocent  pursuits  and  thoughts,  and  nothing  harmed 
her.  She  could  go  down  to  her  father's  rooms  now,  and  think 
of  him,  and  suffer  her  loving  heart  humbly  to  approach  him^ 
without  fear  of  repulse.  She  could  look  upon  the  objects  that, 
had  surrounded  him  in  his  sorrow,  and  could  nestle  near  his 
chair,  and  not  dread  the  glance  that  she  so  well  remembered. 
She  could  render  him  such  little  tokens  of  her  duty  and  ser- 
vice, as  putting  everything  in  order  for  him  with  her  own  hands 
binding  little  nosegays  for  his  table,  changing  them  as  one  by 
one  they  withered,  and  he  did  not  come  back,  preparing  some- 
thing for  him  every  day,  aud  leaving  some  timid  mark  of  her 
presence  near  his  usual  seat.  To-day,  it  was  a  little  painted 
stand  for  his  watch  ;  to-morrow  she  would  be  afraid  to  leave  it, 
and  would  substitute  some  other  trifle  of  her  making  not  SQ 


3 1 c  J)OMj;e y  and  soM. 

likely  to  attract  his  eye.  Waking  in  the  night,  perhaps,  she 
would  tremble  at  the  thought  of  his  coming  home  and  angrily 
rejecting  it,  and  would  hurry  down  with  slippered  feet  and 
quickly  beating  heart,  and  bring  it  away.  At  another  time,  she 
would  only  lay  her  face  upon  his  desk,  and  leave  a  kiss  there, 
and  a  tear. 

Still  no  one  knew  of  this.  Unless  the  household  found  it 
out  when  she  was  not  there — and  they  all  held  Mr.  Dombey's 
rooms  in  awe — it  was  as  deep  a  secret  in  her  breast  as  what 
had  gone  before  it.  Florence  stole  into  those  rooms  at  twilight, 
early  in  the  morning,  and  at  times  when  meals  were  served 
down  stairs.  And  although  they  were  in  every  nook  the  better 
and  the  brighter  for  her  care,  she  entered  and  passed  out  quietly 
as  any  sunbeam,  excepting  that  she  left  her  light  behind. 

Shadowy  company  attended  Florence  up  and  down  the  echo- 
ing house,  and  sat  with  her  in  the  dismantled  rooms.  As  if  her 
life  were  an  enchanted  vision,  there  arose  out  of  her  solitude 
ministering  thoughts,  that  made  it  fanciful  and  unreal.  She 
imagined  so  often  what  her  life  would  have  been  if  her  father 
could  have  loved  her  and  she  had  been  a  favorite  child,  that 
sometimes,  foi  the  moment,  she  almost  believed  it  was  so,  and, 
borne  on  by  the  current  of  that  pensive  fiction,  seemed  to  remem- 
ber how  they  had  watched  her  brother  in  his  grave  together ; 
how  they  had  freely  shared  his  heart  between  them  ;  how  they 
Were  united  in  the  dear  remembrance  of  him ;  how  they  often 
spoke  about  him  yet ;  and  her  kind  father,  looking  at  her 
gently,  told  her  of  their  common  hope  and  trust  in  God.  At 
other  times  she  pictured  to  herself  her  mother  yet  alive.  And 
oh  the  happiness  of  falling  on  her  neck,  and  clinging  to  her 
with  the  love  and  confidence  of  all  her  soul  !  And  oh  the 
desolation  of  the  solitary  house  again,  with  evening  coming  on, 
and  no  one  there  ! 

But  there  was  one  thought,  scarcely  shaped  out  to  herself 
yet  fervent  and  strong  within  her,  that  upheld  Florence  when 
she  strove  and  filled  her  true  young  heart,  so  sorely  tried,  with 
constancy  of  purpose.  Into  her  mind  as  into  all  others  con- 
tending with  the  great  aflliction  of  our  mortal  nature,  there  had 
stolen  solemn  wonderings  and  hopes,  arising  in  the  dim  world 
beyond  the  present  life,  and  murmuring,  like  faint  music,  of 
recognition  in  the  far  off  land  between  her  brother  and  her 
mother  :  of  some  present  consciousness  in  both  of  her  :  some 
love  and  commiseration  for  her  :  and  some  knowledge  of  her  as 
she  went  her  way  upon  tlie  earth.  It  was  a  soothing  consola- 
tion to  Florence  to  give  shelter  to  these  thoughts,  until  one  day 


FLORENCE  SOLITARY. 


31: 


• — it  was  soon  after  she  had  last  seen  her  father  in  his  own 
room,  late  at  night — the  fancy  came  upon  her  that  in  weeping 
for  his  alienated  heart,  she  might  stir  the  spirits  of  the  dead 
against  him.  Wild,  weak,  childish,  as  it  may  have  been  to  think 
so  and  to  tremble  at  the  half-foimed  thought,  it  was  the  im- 
pulse of  her  loving  nature  ;  and  from  that  hour  Florence  strove 
against  the  cruel  wound  in  her  breast,  and  tried  to  think  of  him 
whose  hand  had  made  it  only  with  hope. 

Her  father  did  not  know — she  held  to  it  from  that  time — 
how  much  she  loved  him.  She  was  very  young,  and  had  no 
mother,  and  had  never  learned,  by  some  fault  or  misfortune 
how  to  express  to  him  that  she  loved  him.  She  would  be  pa- 
tient, and  would  try  to  gain  that  art  in  time,  and  win  him  to  a 
better  knowledge  of  his  only  child. 

This  became  the  purpose  of  her  life.  The  morning  sun 
shone  down  upon  the  faded  house  and  found  the  resolution 
bright  and  fresh  witMn  the  bosom  of  its  solitary  mistress. 
Through  all  the  duties  of  the  day  it  animated  her;  for  Flor- 
ence hoped  that  the  more  she  knew,  and  the  more  accomplished 
she  became  the  more  glad  he  would  be  when  he  came  to  know 
and  like  her.  Sometimes  she  wondered  with  a  swelling  heart 
and  rising  tear,  whether  she  was  proficient  enough  in  anything 
to  surprise  him  when  they  should  become  companions.  Some- 
times she  tried  to  think  if  there  were  any  kind  of  knowledge 
that  would  bespeak  his  interest  more  readily  than  another.  Al- 
ways :  at  her  books,  her  music,  and  her  work  :  in  her  morning 
walks,  and  in  her  nightly  prayers  :  she  had  her  engrossing  aim 
in  view.  Strange  study  for  a  child,  to  learn  the  road  to  a  hard 
parent's  heart! 

There  were  many  careless  loungers  through  the  street,  as 
the  summer  evening  deepened  into  night,  who  glanced  across 
the  road  at  the  sombre  house,  and  saw  the  youthful  figure  at 
the  window,  such  a  contrast  to  it,  looking  upward  at  the  stars 
as  they  began  to  shine,  who  would  have  slept  the  worse  if  they 
had  known  on  what  design  she  mused  so  steadfastly.  The 
reputation  of  the  mansion  as  a  haunted  house,  would  not  have 
been  the  gayer  with  some  humble  dwellers  elsewhere,  who  were 
struck  by  its  external  gloom  in  passing  and  repassing  on  their 
daily  avocations,  and  so  named  it,  if  they  could  have  read  its 
story  in  the  darkening  face.  But  Florence  held  her  sacred 
purpose,  unsuspected  and  unaided  :  and  studied  only  how  to 
bring  her  father  to  the  understanding  that  she  loved  him,  and 
made  no  appeal  against  him  in  any  wandering  thought. 

Thu?  Florence  lived  alone  in  the  deserted  house;  and  day 


312 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


succeeded  day,  and  still  she  lived  alone,  and  the  monotonous 
walls  looked  down  upon  her  with  a  stare,  as  if  they  had  a  Gor- 
gon-like intent  to  stare  her  youth  and  beauty  into  stone. 

Susan  Nipper  stood  opposite  to  her  young  mistress  one 
morning,  as  she  folded  and  sealed  a  note  she  had  been  writ- 
ing :  and  showed  in  her  looks  an  approving  knowledge  of  its 
contents. 

"  Better  late  than  never,  dear  Miss  Floy,"  said  Susan,  "  and 
I  do  say,  that  even  a  visit  to  them  old  Skettleses  will  be  a  God- 
send." 

"  It  is  very  good  of  Sir  Barnet  and  Lady  Skettles,  Susan," 
returned  Florence,  with  a  mild  correction  of  that  young  lady's 
familiar  mention  of  the  family  in  question,  "  to  repeat  their  in- 
vitation so  kindly." 

]\Iiss  Nipper,  who  was  perhaps  the  most  thorough-going 
partisan  on  the  face  of  the  earth,  and  who  carried  her  partisan- 
ship into  all  matters  great  or  small,  and  perpetually  waged  war 
with  it  against  society,  screwed  up  her  lips  and  shook  her  head, 
as  a  protest  against  any  recognition  of  disinterestedness  in  the 
Skettleses,  and  a  plea  in  bar  that  they  would  have  valuable 
consideration  for  their  kindness,  in  the  company  of  Florence. 

"  They  know  what  they're  about,  if  ever  people  did,"  mur- 
mured Miss  Nipper,  drawing  in  her  breath,  "  oh !  trust  them 
Skettleses  for  that !  " 

"  I  am  not  very  anxious  to  go  to  Fulham,  Susan,  I  con- 
fess," said  Florence  thoughtfully;  "but  it  will  be  right  to  go 
I  think  it  will  be  better." 

"  Much  better,"  interposed  Susan,  with  another  emphatic 
shake  of  her  head. 

"  And  so,"  said  Florence,  "  though  I  would  prefer  to  have 
gone  when  there  was  no  one  there,  instead  of  in  this  vacation 
time,  when  it  seems  there  are  some  young  people  staying  in  the 
house,  I  have  thankfully  said  yes." 

"  For  which  /  say.  Miss  Floy,  Oh  be  joyful  !  "  returned 
Susan.     "  Ah  !  h— h  !  " 

This  last  ejaculation,  with  which  Miss  Nipper  frequently 
wound  up  a  sentence,  at  about  that  epoch  of  time,  was  sup- 
posed below  the  level  of  the  hall  to  have  a  general  reference  to 
Mr.  Dombey,  and  to  be  expressive  of  a  yearning  in  Miss  Nipper 
to  favor  that  gentleman  with  a  piece  of  her  mind.  But  she  never 
explained  it  ;  and  it  had,  in  consequence,  the  charm  of  mystery 
in  addition  to  the  advantage  of  the  sharpest  expression, 

"  How  long  it  is  before  we  have  any  news  of  Walter, 
Susan  ! "  observed  Florence,  after  a  moment's  silence. 


FLORENCE  SOLITARY.  %\\ 

"  Long  indeed,  Miss  Floy  !  "  replied  her  maid.  "  And 
Perch  said,  when  he  came  just  now  to  see  for  letters — but  what 
signifies  what  he  says !  "  exclaimed  Susan,  reddening  and  break- 
ing off.     "  Much  he  knows  about  it !  " 

'  Florence  raised  her  eyes  quickly,  and  a  flush  overspread 
her  face. 

"  If  I  hadn't,"  said  Susan  Nipper,  evidently  strugghng  with 
some  latent  anxiety  and  alarm,  and  looking  full  at  her  young 
mistress  while  endeavoring  to  work  herself  into  a  state  of  re- 
sentment with  the  unoffending  Mr.  Perch's  image,  "  if  I  hadn't 
more  manliness  than  that  insipidest  of  his  sex,  I'd  never  take 
pride  in  my  hair  again,  but  turn  it  up  behind  my  ears,  and 
wear  coarse  caps,  without  a  bit  of  border,  until  death  released 
me  from  my  insignificance.  I  may  not  be  a  Amazon,  Miss 
Floy,  and  wouldn't  so  demean  myself  by  such  disfigurement,  but 
anyways  I'm  not  a  giver  up,  I  hope." 

"  Give  up  !  What  ?  "  cried  Florence,  with  a  face  of  terror. 
"Why,  nothing.  Miss,"  said  Susan.  "Good  gracious, 
nothing  !  It's  only  that  wet  curl-paper  of  a  man  Perch,  that 
any  one  might  almost  make  away  with,  with  a  touch,  and  really 
it  would  be  a  blessed  event  for  all  parties  if  some  one  would 
take  pity  on  him,  and  would  have  the  goodness !  " 

"  Does  he  give  up  the  ship,  Susan  ? "  inquired  Florence, 
very  pale. 

"  No,  Miss,"  returned  Susan,  "  I  should  like  to  see  him 
make  so  bold  as  do  it  to  my  face  !  No,  Miss,  but  he  goes  on 
about  some  bothering  ginger  that  Mr.  Walter  was  to  send  to 
Mrs.  Perch,  and  shakes  his  dismal  head,  and  says  he  hopes  it 
may  be  coming  ;  any  how,  he  says,  it  can't  come  now  in  time 
for  the  intended  occasion,  but  may  do  for  next,  which  really," 
said  Miss  Nipper,  with  aggravated  scorn,  "  puts  me  out  of  pa- 
tience with  the  man,  for  though  I  can  bear  a  great  deal,  I  am 
not  a  camel,  neither  am  I,"  added  Susan,  after  a  moment's 
consideration,  "  if  I  know  myself,  a  dromedary  neither." 

"What  else  does  he  say,  Susan  ? "  inquired  Florence,  ear- 
nestly.    "  Won't  you  tell  me  ?  " 

"  As  if  I  wouldn't  tell  you  anything.  Miss  Floy,  and  every- 
thing  !  "  said  Susan.  "  Why,  Miss,  he  says  that  there  begins 
to  be  a  general  talk  about  the  ship,  and  that  they  have  never 
had  a  ship  on  that  voyage  half  so  long  unheard  of,  and  that 
the  Captain's  wife  was  at  the  office  yesterday,  and  seemed  a 
little  put  out  about  it,  but  any  one  could  say  that,  we  knew 
nearly  that  before." 

"I  must  visit  Walter's  uncle,"   said  Florence,  hurriedly, 


3t4  DOA/BEV  AXD  SOX. 

"  before  I  leave  home.  I  will  go  and  see  him  tliis  morning. 
Let  us  walk  there,  directly,  Susan." 

Miss  Nipper  having  nothing  to  urge  against  the  proposal, 
but  being  perfectly  acquiescent,  they  were  soon  equipped,  and 
in  the  streets,  and  on  their  way  towards  the  little  Midshipman. 

The  state  of  mind  in  which  poor  Walter  had  gone  to  Cap- 
tain Cuttle's,  on  the  day  when  Brogley  the  broker  came  into 
possession,  and  when  there  seemed  to  him  to  be  an  execution 
in  the  very  steeples,  was  pretty  much  the  same  as  that  in  which 
Florence  now  took  her  way  to  Uncle  Sol's ;  with  this  differ- 
ence, that  Florence  suffered  the  added  pain  of  thinking  that 
she  had  been,  perhaps,  the  innocent  occasion  of  involving  Wal- 
ter in  peril,  and  all  to  whom  he  was  dear,  herself  included,  in 
an  agony  of  suspense.  For  the  rest,  uncertainty  and  danger 
seemed  written  upon  everything.  The  weathercocks  on  spires 
and  housetops  were  mysterious  with  hints  of  stormy  wind,  and 
pointed,  like  so  many  ghostly  fingers,  out  to  dangerous  seas, 
where  fragments  of  great  wrecks  were  drifting,  perhaps,  and 
helpless  men  were  rocked  upon  them  into  a  sleep  as  deep  as 
the  unfathomable  waters.  When  Florence  came  into  the  City, 
and  passed  gentlemen  who  were  talking  together,  she  dreaded 
to  hear  them  speaking  of  the  ship,  and  saying  it  was  lost.  Pic- 
tures and  prints  of  vessels  fighting  with  the  rolling  waves  filled 
her  with  alarm.  The  smoke  and  clouds,  though  moving  gently 
moved  too  fast  for  her  apprehensions,  and  made  her  fear  there 
was  a  tempest  blowing  at  that  moment  on  the  ocean. 

Susan  Nipper  may  or  may  not  have  been  affected  similarly 
but  having  her  attention  much  engaged  in  struggles  with  boys 
whenever  there  was  any  press  of  people — for,  between  that 
grade  of  human  kind  and  herself,  there  was  some  natural  an- 
imosity that  invariably  broke  out,  whenever  they  came  together 
— it  would  seem  that  she  had  not  much  leisure  on  the  road  for 
intellectual  operations. 

Arriving  in  good  time  abreast  of  the  wooden  Midshipman 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  way,  and  waiting  for  an  opportunity 
to  cross  the  street,  they  were  a  little  surprised  at  first  to  see, 
at  the  Instrument-maker's  door,  a  round-headed  lad,  with  his 
chubby  face  addressed  towards  the  sky,  who,  as  they  looked  at 
him,  suddenly  thrust  into  his  capacious  mouth  two  fingers  of 
each  hand,  and  with  the  assistance  of  that  machinery  whistled, 
•with  astonishing  shrillness,  to  some  pigeons  at  a  considerable 
elevation  in  the  air. 

"Miss  Richard's  eldest.  Miss!"  said  Susan,  "and  the 
worrit  of  Mrs.  Richard's  life !  " 


PLORENCE  SOLITARY,  315 

As  Polly  had  been  to  tell  Florence  ot  the  resuscitated  pros- 
pects of  her  son  and  heir,  Florence  was  prepared  for  the  meet- 
ing ;  so  a  favorable  moment  presenting  itself,  they  both  has- 
tened across,  without  any  further  contemplation  of  Mrs. 
Richard's  bane.  That  sporting  character,  unconscious  of  their 
approach,  again  whistled  with  his  utmost  might,  and  then  yelled 
in  a  rapture  of  excitement,  "  Strays  !  Whoo-oop  !  Strays  !  " 
which  identification  had  such  an  effect  upon  the  conscience- 
stricken  pigeons,  that  instead  of  going  direct  to  some  town  in 
the  North  of  England,  as  appeared  to  have  been  their  original 
intention,  they  began  to  wheel  and  fftlter ;  whereupon  Mrs. 
Richards's  first-born  pierced  them  with  another  whistle,  and 
again  yelled,  in  a  voice  that  rose  above  the  turmoil  of  the  street, 
"  Strays  !     Whoh-oop  !     Strays  !  " 

From  this  transport,  he  was  abruptly  recalled  to  terrestrial 
objects,  by  a  poke  from  Miss  Nipper,  which  sent  him  into  the 
shop. 

"  Is  this  the  way  )^ou  show  your  penitence,  when  Mrs.  Rich- 
ards has  been  fretting  for  you  months  and  months  !"  said  Susan, 
following  the  poke.     "  Where's  Mr.  Gills  ?  " 

Rob  who  smoothed  his  first  rebellious  glance  at  Miss  Nipper 
when  he  saw  Florence  following,  put  his  knuckles  to  his  hair, 
in  honor  of  the  latter,  and  said  to  the  former,  that  Mr.  Gills 
was  out. 

"  Fetch  him  home,"  said  Miss  Nipper,  with  authority,  "  and 
say  that  my  young  lady's  here." 

"  I  don't  know  where  he's  gone,"  said  Rob. 
"  Is  that  your  penitence  ?  "  cried  Susan,  with  stinging  sharp- 
ness. 

"  Why  how  can  I  go  and  fetch  him  when  I  don't  know  where 
to  go  !  "  whimpered  the  baited  Rob.  "  How  can  you  be  so  un- 
reasonable ?  " 

"  Did  Mr.  Gills  say  when  he  should  be  home  ?  "  asked 
Florence. 

"  Yes,  Miss,"  replied  Rob,  with  another  application  of  his 
knuckles  to  his  hair.  "  He  said  he  should  be  home  early  in 
the  afternoon  ;  in  about  a  couple  of  hours  from  now.  Miss." 

"  Is  he  very  anxious  about  his  nephew  ? "  inquired  Susan. 

"  Yes,  Miss,"  returned  Rob,  preferring  to  address  himself  to 
Florence  and  slighting  Nipper  ;  "  I  should  say  he  was  very 
much  so.  He  ain't  indoors,  Miss,  not  a  quarter  of  an  hour  to- 
gether. He  can't  settle  in  one  place  five  minutes.  He  goes 
about,  like  a — just  like  a  stray,"  said  Rob,  stooping  to  get  a 
glimpse  of  the  pigeons  through  the  window,  and  checking  hira- 


3  1 6  DOMBE  y  AiYl)  SOAT. 

self,  with  his  fingers  half-way  to  his  mouth,  on  the  verge  of 
another  whistle. 

"  Do  you  know  a  friend  of  Mr.  Gills,  called  Captain  Cuttle  ?" 
inquired  Florence,  after  a  moment's  rcHection. 

"  Him  with  a  hook,  Miss  .?  "  rejoined  Rob,  with  an  illustra- 
tive twist  of  his  left  hand.  "  Yes,  Miss.  He  was  here  the  day 
before  yesterday." 

"  Has  he  not  been  here  since  ?  "  asked  Susan. 

"  No,  Miss,"  returned  Rob,  still  addressing  his  reply  to 
Florence. 

"  Perhaps  Walter's  uncle  has  gone  there,  Susan,"  observed 
Florence,  turning  to  her. 

"To  Captain  Cuttle's,  Miss  ?"  interposed  Rob,  "no,  he's 
not  gone  there,  Miss.  Because  he  left  particular  word  that  if 
Captain  Cuttle  called,  I  should  tell  him  how  surprised  he  was, 
not  to  have  seen  him  yesterday,  and  should  make  him  stop  till 
he  came  back." 

"  Do  you  know  where  Captain  Cuttle  lives  ?  "  asked  Flor- 
ence. 

Rob  replied  in  the  affirmative,  and  turning  to  a  greasy  parch- 
ment book  on  the  shop  desk,  read  the  address  aloud. 

Florence  again  turned  to  her  maid  and  took  counsel  with 
her  in  a  low  voice,  while  Rob  the  round-eyed,  mindful  of  his 
patron's  secret  charge,  looked  on  and  listened.  Florence  pro- 
posed that  they  should  go  to  Captain  Cuttle's  house  ;  hear  from 
his  own  lips  what  he  thought  of  the  absence  of  any  tidings  of 
the  Son  and  Heir ;  and  bring  him,  if  they  could  to  comfort 
Uncle  Sol.  Susan  at  first  objected  slightly,  on  the  score  of 
distance ;  but  a  hackney-coach  being  mentioned  by  her  mis- 
tress, withdrew  that  opposition,  and  gave  in  her  assent.  There 
were  some  minutes  of  discussion  between  them  before  they 
came  to  this  conclusion,  during  which  the  staring  Rob  paid 
close  attention  to  both  speakers,  and  inclined  his  ear  to  each 
by  turns,  as  if  he  were  appointed  arbitrator  of  the  arguments. 

In  fine,  Rob  was  despatched  for  a  coach,  the  visitors  keep- 
ing shop  meanwhile  ;  and  when  he  brought  it,  they  got  into  it, 
leaving  word  for  Uncle  Sol  that  they  would  be  sure  to  call 
again,  on  their  way  back.  Rob  having  stared  after  the  coach 
until  it  was  as  invisible  as  the  pigeons  had  now  become,  sat 
down  behind  the  desk  with  a  most  assiduous  demeanor  ;  and  in 
order  that  he  might  forget  nothing  of  what  had  transpired, 
made  notes  of  it  on  various  small  scraps  of  paper,  with  a  vast 
expenditure  of  ink.  There  was  no  danger  of  these  documents 
betraying  anything  if  accidentally  lost;  for  long  before  a  word 


FLORENCE  SOLITARY.  ^jj 

was  dry,  it  became  as  profound  a  mystery  to  Rob,  as  if  he  had 
had  no  part  whatever  in  its  production. 

While  he  was  yet  busy  with  these  labors,  th :  hackney- 
coach,  after  encountering  unheard-of  difficulties  from  swivel- 
bridges,  soft  roads,  impassable  canals,  caravans  of  casks,  set- 
tlements of  scarlet-beans  and  little  wash-houses,  and  many  such 
obstacles  abounding  in  that  country,  stopped  at  the  corner  of 
Brig  Place.  Alighting  here,  Florence  and  Susan  Nipper  walked 
down  the  street,  and  sought  out  the  abode  of  Captain  Cuttle. 

It  happened  by  evil  chance  to  be  one  of  Mrs.  MacStinger's 
great  cleaning  days.  On  these  occasions,  Mrs.  MacStinger 
was  knocked  up  by  the  policeman  at  a  quarter  before  three  in 
the  morning,  and  rarely  succumbed  before  twelve  o'clock  next 
night.  The  chief  object  of  this  institution  appeared  to  be,  that 
Mrs.  MacStinger  should  move  all  the  furniture  into  the  back 
garden  at  early  dawn,  walk  about  the  house  in  pattens  all  day 
and  move  the  furniture  back  again  after  dark.  These  ceremo- 
nies greatly  fluttered  those  doves  the  young  Mac  Stingers,  who 
were  not  only  unable  at  such  times  to  find  any  resting-place 
for  the  soles  of  their  feet,  but  generally  came  in  for  a  good  deal 
of  pecking  from  the  maternal  bird  during  the  progress  of  the 
solemnities. 

At  the  moment  when  Florence  and  Susan  Nipper  presented 
themselves  at  Mrs.  MacStinger's  door,  that  worthy  but  redoubt- 
able female  was  in  the  act  of  conveying  Alexander  MacStinger, 
age  two  years  and  three  months,  along  the  passage  for  forci- 
ble deposition  in  a  sitting  posture  on  the  street  pavement ; 
Alexander  being  black  in  the  face  with  holding  his  breath  after 
punishment,  and  a  cool  paving-stone  being  usually  found  to 
act  as  a  powerful  restorative  in  such  cases. 

The  feelings  of  Mrs.  MacStinger,  as  a  woman  and  a  mother, 
were  outraged  by  the  look  of  pity  for  Alexander  which  she 
observed  on  Florence's  face.  Therefore,  Mrs,  MacStinger 
asserting  those  finest  emotions  of  our  nature,  in  preference  to 
weakly  gratifying  her  curiosity,  shook  and  buffeted  Alexander 
both  before  and  during  the  application  of  the  paving-stone,  and 
took  no  further  notice  of  the  strangers. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  ma'am,"  said  Florence,  when  the  child 
had  found  his  breath  again,  and  was  using  it.  "  Is  this  Captain 
Cuttle's  house  ? " 

"  No,"  said  Mrs.  MacStinger. 

"Not  Number  Nine?"  asked  Florence,  hesitating. 

"  Who  said  it  wasn't  Number  Nine  ? "  said  Mrs.  Mac- 
Stinger, 


S^i 


DOMBEY  AMD  SON. 


Susan  Nipper  instantly  struck  in,  and  begged  to  inquire 
what  Mrs.  MacStinger  meant  by  tliat,  and  if  she  knew  whom 
she  was  talking  to. 

Mrs.  MacStinger  in  retort,  looked  at  her  all  over.  "What 
do  you  want  with  Captain  Cuttle,  I  should  wish  to  know  > " 
said  Mrs.  MacStinger, 

"  Should  you  ?  Then  I'm  sorry  that  you  won't  be  satisfied," 
returned  Miss  Nipper, 

"  Hush,  Susan !  If  you  please  !  "  said  Florence.  "  Per- 
haps you  can  have  the  goodness  to  tell  us  where  Captain  Cut- 
tle lives,  ma'am,  as  he  don't  live  here," 

"  Who  says  he  don't  live  here.''  "  retorted  the  implacable 
MacStinger.  "I  said  it  wasn't  Cap'en  Cuttle's  house — and  it 
ain't  his  house — and  forbid  it,  that  it  ever  should  be  his  house 
— for  Cap'en  Cuttle  don't  know  how  to  keep  a  house — and 
don't  deserve  to  have  a  house — it's  My  house — and  when  I  let 
the  upper  floor  to  Cap'en  Cuttle,  oh  I  do  a  thankless  thing, 
and  cast  pearls  before  swine  !  " 

Mrs,  MacStinger  pitched  her  voice  for  the  upper  windows 
in  offering  these  remarks,  and  cracked  off  each  clause  sharply 
by  itself  as  if  from  a  rifle  possessing  an  infinity  of  barrels. 
After  the  last  shot,  the  Captain's  voice  was  heard  to  say,  in 
feeble  remonstrance  from  his  own  room,  "  steady  below  !  " 

"  Since  you  want  Cap'en  Cuttle,  there  he  is  !  "  said  Mrs. 
MacStinger,  with  an  angry  motion  of  her  hand.  On  Florence 
making  bold  to  enter,  without  any  more  parley,  and  on  Susan 
following,  Mrs,  MacStinger  recommenced  her  pedestrian  exer- 
cise in  pattens,  and  Alexander  MacStinger  (still  on  the  pav- 
ing-stone), who  had  stopped  in  his  crying  to  attend  to  the 
conversation,  began  to  wail  again,  entertaining  himself  during 
that  dismal  performance,  which  was  quite  mechanical,  with  a 
general  survey  of  the  prospect,  terminating  in  the  hackney- 
coach. 

The  Captain  in  his  own  apartment  was  sitting  with  his 
hands  in  his  pockets  and  his  legs  drawn  up  under  his  chair,  on 
a  very  small  desolate  island,  lying  about  midway  in  an  ocean 
of  soap  and  water.  The  Captain's  windows  had  been  cleaned, 
the  walls  had  been  cleaned,  the  stove  had  been  cleaned,  and 
everything,  the  stove  excepted,  was  wet,  and  shining  with  soft 
soap  and  sand  :  the  smell  of  which  dry-saltery  impregnated  the 
air.  In  the  midst  of  the  dreary  scene,  the  Captain,  cast  away 
upon  his  island,  looked  round  on  the  waste  of  waters  with  a 
rueful  countenance,  and  seemed  waiting  for  some  friendly  bark 
to  cpmc  that  way,  and  take  him  pff, 


FLORENCE  SOLITARY. 


3'^ 


But  when  the  Captain,  directing  his  forlorn  visage  towards 
the  door,  saw  Florence  appear  with  her  maid,  no  words-  can 
describe  his  astonishment.  Mrs.  MacStinger's  eloquence  hav- 
ing rendered  all  other  sounds  but  imperfectly  distinguishable, 
he  had  looked  for  no  rarer  visitor  than  the  potboy  or  the  milk- 
man ;  wherefore,  when  Florence  appeared,  and  coming  to  the 
confines  of  the  island,  put  her  hand  in  his,  the  Captain  stood 
up,  aghast,  as  if  he  supposed  her,  for  the  moment,  to  be  some 
young  member  of  the  Flying  Dutchman's  family. 

Instantly  recovering  his  self-possession,  however,  the  Cap- 
tain's first  care  was  to  place  her  on  dry  land,  which  he  happily 
accomplished,  with  one  motion  of  his  arm.  Issuing  forth,  then, 
upon  the  main.  Captain  Cuttle  took  Miss  Nipper  round  the 
waist,  and  bore  her  to  the  island  also.  Captain  Cuttle,  then, 
with  great  respect  and  admiration,  raised  the  hand  of  Florence 
to  his  lips,  and  standing  off  a  little  (for  the  island  was  not  large 
enough  for  three),  beamed  on  her  from  the  soap  and  water  like 
a  new  description  of  Triton, 

"You  are  amazed  to  see  us,  I  am  sure,"  said  Florence,  with 
a  smile. 

The  inexpressibly  gratified  Captain  kissed  his  hook  in  reply^ 
and  growled,  as  if  a  choice  and  delicate  compliment  were  in- 
cluded in  the  words,  "  Stand  by  !  Stand  by  !  " 

"  But  I  couldn't  rest,"  saicl  Florence,  "  without  coming  to 
ask  you  what  you  think  about  dear  Walter — who  is  my  brother 
now— and  whether  there  is  anything  to  fear,  and  whether  you 
will  not  go  and  console  his  poor  uncle  every  day,  until  we  have 
some  intelligence  of  him  ?  " 

At  these  words  Captain  Cuttle,  as  by  an  involuntary  ges- 
ture, clapped  his  hand  to  his  head,  on  which  the  hard  glazed 
hat  was  not,  and  looked  discomfited. 

"  Have  you  any  fears  for  Walter's  safety  ?  "  inquired  Flor- 
ence, from  whose  face  the  Captain  (so  enraptured  he  was  with 
it)  could  not  take  his  eyes :  while  she,  in  her  turn,  looked  earn- 
estly at  him,  to  be  assured  of  the  sincerity  of  his  reply. 

'"  No,  Heart's-delight,"  said  Captain  Cuttle,  "  I  am  not 
afeard.  Wal'r  is  a  lad  as'll  go  through  a  deal  o'  hard  weatheT. 
Wal'r  is  a  lad  as  '11  bring  as  much  success  to  that  'ere  brig  as 
a  lad  is  capable  on.  Wal'r,"  said  the  Captain,  his  eyes  glisten- 
ing with  the  praise  of  his  young  friend,  and  his  hook  raised  to 
announce  a  beautiful  quotation,  "  is  what  you  may  call  aout'ard 
and  visible  sign  of  a  in'ard  and  spirited  grasp,  and  when  found 
make  a  note  of." 

Florence,  who  did  not  quite  understand  this,  though  the 


320 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


Captain  evidently  thought  it  full  of  meaning,  and  highly  satis- 
factory, mildly  looked  to  him  for  something  more. 

"  I  am  not  afeared,  my  Heart's-delight,"  resumed  the  Cap- 
tain. "  There's  been  most  uncommon  bad  weather  in  them 
latitudes,  there's  no  denyin',  and  they  have  drove  and  drove  and 
been  beat  off,  may  be  t'other  side  the  world.  But  the  ship's 
a  good  ship,  and  the  lad's  a  good  lad;  and  it  ain't  easy,  thank 
the  Lord,"  the  Captain  made  a  little  bow,  "  to  break  up  hearts 
of  oak,  whether  they're  in  brigs  or  buzzums.  Here  we  have 
'em  both  ways,  which  is  bringing  it  up  with  a  round  turn,  and 
so  I  ain't  a  bit  afeard  as  yet." 

"  As  yet  ?  "  repeated  Florence. 

"  Not  a  bit,"  returned  the  Captain,  kissing  his  iron  hand  ; 
"  and  afore  I  begin  to  be,  my  Heart's-delight,  Wal'r  will  have 
wrote  home  from  the  island,  or  from  some  port  or  another,  and 
made  all  taut  and  ship-shape.  And  with  regard  to  old  Sol 
Gills,"  here  the  Captain  became  solemn,  "  who  I'll  stand  by, 
and  not  desert  until  death  do  us  part,  and  when  the  stormy 
winds  do  blows,  do  blow,  do  blow — overhaul  the  Catechism," 
said  the  Captain  parenthetically,  "  and  there  you'll  find  them 
expressions — if  it  would  console  Sol  Gills  to  have  the  opinion 
of  a  seafaring  man  as  has  got  a  mind  equal  to  any  undertaking 
that  he  puts  it  alongside  of,  and  as  was  all  but  smashed  in  his 
'prenticeship,  and  of  which  the  name  is  Bunsby,  that  'ere  man 
shall  give  him  such  an  opinion  in  his  own  parlor  as'U  stun  him. 
Ah  !  "  said  Captain  Cuttle,  vauntingly,  "  as  much  as  if  he'd 
gone  and  knocked  his  head  again  a  door  !  " 

"  Let  us  take  this  gentleman  to  see  him,  and  let  us  hear 
what  he  says,"  cried  Florence.  "  Will  you  go  with  us  now  ? 
We  have  a  coach  here." 

Again  the  Captain  clapped  his  hand  to  his  head,  on  which 
the  hard  glazed  hat  was  not,  and  looked  discomfited.  But  at 
this  instant  a  most  remarkable  phenomenon  occurred.  The 
door  opening,  without  any  note  of  preparation,  and  apparently 
of  itself,  the  hard  glazed  hat  in  question  skimmed  into  the  room 
like  a  bird,  and  alighted  heavily  at  the  Captain's  feet.  The 
door  then  shut  as  violently  as  it  had  opened,  and  nothing 
ensued  in  explanation  of  the  prodigy. 

Captain  Cuttle  picked  up  his  hat,  and  having  turned  it  over 
with  a  look  of  interest  and  welcome,  began  to  polish  it  on  his 
sleeve.  While  doing  so,  the  Captain  eyed  his  visitors  intently, 
and  said  in  a  low  voice  : 

"  You  see  I  should  have  bore  down  on  Sol  Gills  yesterday, 
and  this  morning,  but  she — she  took  it  away  and  kept  it.  That's 
the  long  and  short  of  the  subject." 


FLORENCE  SOLITARY.  32 1 

"  Who  did,  for  goodness  sake  ?  "  asked  Susan  Nipper. 

"The  lady  of  the  house,  my  dear,"  returned  the  Captain,  in 
A  gruff  whisper,  and  making  signals  of  secrecy.  "  We  had  some 
words  about  the  swabbing  of  these  here  planks,  and  she — in 
short,"  said  the  Captain,  eyeing  the  door,  and  relieving  himself 
with  a  long  breath,  "  she  stopped  my  liberty." 

"Oh  !  I  wish  she  had  me  to  deal  with  !"  said  Susan,  red- 
dening with  the  energy  of  the  wish.     "  I'd  stop  her !  " 

"  Would  you,  do  you  think,  my  dear  ?  "  rejoined  the  Captain, 
shaking  his  head  doubtfully,  but  regarding  the  desperate  courage 
of  the  fair  aspirant  with  obvious  admiration.  "  I  don't  know. 
It's  difficult  navigation.  She's  very  hard  to  carry  on  with, 
my  dear.  You  never  can  tell  how  she'll  head,  you  see.  She's 
full  one  minute,  and  round  upon  you  next.  And  when  she  is  a 
tartar,"  said  the  Captain,  with  the  perspiration  breaking  out 
upon  his  forehead — .  There  was  nothing  but  a  whistle  em- 
phatic enough  for  the  conclusion  of  the  sentence,  so  the  Cap- 
tain whistled  tremulously.  After  which  he  again  shook  his 
head,  and  recurring  to  his  admiration  of  Miss  Nipper's  de- 
voted bravery,  timidly  repeated,  "  Would  you,  do  you  think,  my 
dear? " 

Susan  only  replied  with  a  bridling  smile,  but  that  was  so 
very  full  of  defiance,  that  there  is  no  knowing  how  long  Cap- 
tain Cuttle  might  have  stood  entranced  in  its  contemplation,  if 
Florence  in  her  anxiety  had  not  again  proposed  their  immedi- 
ately resorting  to  the  oracular  Bunsby.  Thus  reminded  of  his 
duty.  Captain  Cuttle  put  on  the  glazed  hat  firmly,  took  up  an- 
other knobby  stick,  with  which  he  had  supplied  the  place  of 
that  one  given  to  Walter,  and  offering  his  arm  to  Florence,  pre- 
pared to  cut  his  way  through  the  enemy. 

It  turned  out,  however,  that  Mrs.  MacStinger  had  already 
changed  her  course,  and  that  she  headed,  as  the  Captain  had 
remarked  she  often  did,  in  quite  a  new  direction.  For  when 
they  got  down  stairs,  they  found  that  exemplary  woman  beating 
the  mats  on  the  door-steps,  with  Alexander,  still  upon  the  pav-^ 
ing-stone,  dimly  looming  through  a  fog  of  dust  ;  and  so  absorbed 
was  Mrs,  MacStinger  in  her  household  occupation,  that  when 
Captain  Cuttle  and  his  visitors  passed,  she  beat  the  harder,  and 
neither  by  word  nor  gesture  showed  any  consciousness  of  their 
vicinity.  The  Captain  was  so  well  pleased  with  this  easy  escape 
— although  the  effect  of  the  door-mats  on  him  was  like  a  copious 
administration  of  snuff,  and  made  him  sneeze  until  the  tears 
ran  down  his  face — that  he  could  hardly  believe  his  good  for- 
tune ;  but  more  than  once  between  the  door  and  the  hackney- 


5i4  £> 0MB E  Y  AA 'D  SO^. 

coach,  looked  over  his  shoulder,  with  an  obvious  apprehensioo 
of  Mrs.  MacStinger's  giving  chase  yet. 

However,  they  got  to  the  corner  of  Brig  Place  without  any 
molestation  from  that  terrible  fire-ship  ;  and  the  Captain  mount- 
ing the  coach-box — for  his  gallantry  would  not  allow  him  to  ride 
inside  with  the  ladies,  though  besought  to  do  so — piloted  the 
driver  on  his  course  for  Captain  Bunsby's  vessel,  which  was 
called  the  Cautious  Clara,  and  was  lying  hard  by  Ratcliffe. 

Arrived  at  the  wharf  off  which  this  great  commander's  ship 
was  jammed  in  among  some  five  hundred  companions,  whose 
tangled  rigging  looked  like  monstrous  cobwebs  half  swept  down. 
Captain  Cuttle  appeared  at  the  coach  window,  and  invited 
Florence  and  Miss  Nipper  to  accompany  him  on  board  ;  ob- 
serving that  Bunsby  was  to  the  last  degree  soft-hearted  in  re- 
spect of  ladies,  and  that  nothing  would  so  much  tend  to  bring 
his  expansive  intellect  into  a  state  of  harmony  as  their  presen- 
tation to  the  Cautious  Clara. 

Florence  readily  consented  ;  and  the  Captain,  taking  her 
little  hand  in  his  prodigious  palm,  led  her,  with  a  mixed  expres- 
sion of  patronage,  paternity,  pride,  and  ceremony,  that  was 
pleasant  to  see,  over  several  very  dirty  decks,  until,  coming  to 
the  Clara,  they  found  that  cautious  craft  (which  lay  outside  the 
tier)  with  her  gangway  removed,  and  half  a  dozen  feet  of  river 
interposed  between  herself  and  her  nearest  neighbor.  It  ap- 
peared, from  Captain  Cuttle's  explanation,  that  the  great  Buns- 
by, like  himself,  was  cruelly  treated  by  his  landlady,  and  that 
when  her  usage  of  him  for  the  time  being  was  so  hard  that  he 
could  bear  it  no  longer,  he  set  this  gulf  between  them  as  a  last 
resource. 

"  Clara  a-hoy  !  "  cried  the  Captain,  putting  a  hand  to  each 
side  of  his  mouth. 

"  A-hoy  !  "  cried  a  boy,  like  the  Captain's  echo,  tumbling 
up  from  below. 

**  Bunsby  aboard  t  "  cried  the  Captain,  hailing  the  boy  in  a 
stentorian  voice,  as  if  he  were  half-a-mile  off  instead  of  two 
yards. 

"  Ay,  ay !  "  cried  the  boy,  in  the  same  tone. 

The  boy  theji  shoved  out  a  plank  to  Captain  Cuttle,  who 
adjusted  it  carefully,  and  led  Florence  across  :  returning  pres- 
ently for  Miss  Nipper.  So  they  stood  upon  the  deck  of  the 
Cautious  Clara,  in  whose  standing  rigging,  divers  fluttering 
articles  of  dress  were  cuxing,  in  company  with  a  few  tongues 
and  some  mackerel. 

Immediately  there  appeared,  coming  slowly  up  above  the 


PLOREKCE  S6UTARY.  4^| 

bulk-head  of  the  cabin,  another  bulk-head — human,  and  very 
large — with  one  stationary  eye  in  the  mahogany  face,  and  one 
revolving  one,  on  the  principle  of  some  light-houses.  This 
head  was  decorated  with  shaggy  hair,  like  oakum,  which  had 
no  governing  inclination  towards  the  north,  east,  west,  or  soutli, 
but  inclined  to  all  four  quarters  of  the  compass,  and  to  every 
point  upon  it.  The  head  was  followed  by  a  perfect  desert  of 
chin,  and  by  a  shirt-collar  and  neckerchief,  and  by  a  dread- 
nought pilot-coat,  and  by  a  pair  of  dreadnought  pilot-trousers, 
whereof  the  waistband  was  so  very  broad  and  high,  that  it  be- 
came a  succedaneum  for  a  waistcoat :  being  ornamented  near 
the  wearer's  breast-bone  with  some  massive  wooden  buttons, 
like  backgammon  men.  As  the  lower  portions  of  these  panta- 
loons became  revealed,  Bunsby  stood  confessed  ;  his  hands  in 
their  pockets,  which  were  of  vast  size  ;  and  his  gaze  directed, 
not  to  Captain  Cuttle  or  the  ladies,  but  the  mast  head. 

The  profound  appearance  of  this  philosopher,  who  was 
bulky  and  strong,  and  on  whose  extremely  red  face  an  expres- 
sion of  taciturnity  sat  enthroned,  not  inconsistent  with  his 
character,  in  which  that  quality  was  proudly  conspicuous,  almost 
daunted  Captain  Cuttle,  though  on  familiar  terms  with  him. 
Whispering  to  Florence  that  Bunsby  had  never  in  his  life  ex- 
pressed surprise,  and  was  considered  not  to  know  what  it 
meant,  the  Captain  watched  him  as  he  eyed  his  mast-head,  and 
afterwards  swept  the  horizon  ;  and  when  the  revolving  eye 
seemed  to  be  coming  round  in  his  direction,  said : 

"  Bunsby,  my  lad,  how  fares  it  ?  " 

A  deep,  gruff,  husky  utterance,  which  seemed  to  have  no 
connection  with  Bunsby,  and  certainly  had  not  the  least  effect 
upon  his  face,  replied,  "  Ay,  ay,  shipmet,  how  goes  it ! "  At 
the  same  time  Bunsby's  right  hand  and  arm,  emerging  from  a 
pocket,  shook  the  Captain's,  and  went  back  again. 

"  Bunsby,"  said  the  Captain,  striking  home  at  once,  "  here 
you  are  ;  a  man  of  mind,  and  a  man  as  can  give  an  opinion. 
Here's  a  young  lady  as  wants  to  take  that  opinion,  in  regard  of 
my  friend  Wal'r  ;  likewise  my  t'other  friend,  Sol  Gills,  which 
is  a  character  for  you  to  come  within  hail  of,  being  a  man  of 
science,  which  is  the  mother  of  inwention,  and  knows  no  law. 
Bunsby,  will  you  wear,  to  oblige  me,  and  come  along  with 
us?" 

The  great  commander,  who  seemed  by  the  expression  of  his 
visage  to  be  always  on  the  look-out  for  something  in  the  ex- 
tremest  distance,  and  to  have  no  ocular  knowledge  of  anything 
within  ten  miles,  made  no  reply  whatever. 


^24  DOMBEY  AND  SOU. 

"  Here  is  a  man,"  said  the  Captain,  addressing  himself  tft 
his  fair  auditors,  and  indicating  the  commander  with  his  out- 
stretched hook,  "  that  has  fell  down  more  than  any  man  alive ; 
that  has  had  more  accidents  happen  to  his  own  self  than  the 
Seaman's  Hospital  to  all  hands  ;  that  took  as  many  spars  and 
bars  and  bolts  about  the  outside  of  his  head  when  he  was  j^oung, 
as  you'd  want  a  order  for  on  Chatham-yard  to  build  a  pleasure- 
yacht  with  ;  and  yet  that  got  his  opinions  in  that  way,  it's  my 
belief,  for  there  an't  nothing  like  'em  afloat  or  ashore." 

The  stolid  commander  appeared,  by  a  very  slight  vibration, 
in  his  elbows,  to  express  some  satisfaction  in  this  encomium  ; 
but  if  his  face  had  been  as  distant  as  his  gaze  was,  it  could 
hardly  have  enlightened  the  beholders  less  in  reference  to  any- 
thing that  was  passing  in  his  thoughts. 

"  Shipmet,"  said  Bunsby,  all  of  a  sudden,  and  stooping  down 
to  look  out  under  some  interposing  spar,  "  what'll  the  ladies 
drink  ?  " 

Captain  Cuttle,  whose  delicacy  was  shocked  by  such  an  in- 
quiry in  connection  with  Florence,  drew  the  sage  aside,  and 
seeming  to  explain  in  his  ear,  accompanied  him  below ;  where, 
that  he  might  not  take  offence,  the  Captain  drank  a  dram  him- 
self, which  Florence  and  Susan,  glancing  down  the  open  sky- 
light, saw  the  sage,  with  difficulty  finding  room  for  himself 
between  his  berth  and  a  very  little  brass  fireplace,  serve  out 
for  self  and  friend.  They  soon  reappeared  on  deck,  and  Cap- 
tain Cuttle,  triumphing  in  the  success  of  his  enterprise,  con- 
ducted Florence  back  to  the  coach,  while  Bunsby  followed, 
escorting  Miss  Nipper,  whom  he  hugged  upon  the  way  (much 
to  that  young  lady's  indignation)  with  his  pilot-coated  arm,  like 
a  blue  bear. 

The  Captain  put  his  oracle  inside,  and  gloried  so  much  in 
having  secured  him,  and  having  got  that  mind  into  a  hackney- 
coach,  that  he  could  not  refrain  from  often  peeping  m  at  Flor- 
ence through  the  little  window  behind  the  driver,  and  testifying 
his  delight  in  smiles,  and  also  in  taps  upon  his  forehead,  to  hint 
to  her  that  the  brain  of  Bunsby  was  hard  at  it.  In  the  mean 
time,  Bunsby,  still  hugging  Miss  Nipper  (for  his  friend,  the 
Captain,  had  not  exaggerated  the  softness  of  his  heart),  uni- 
formly preserved  his  gravity  of  deportment,  and  showed  no 
other  consciousness  of  her  or  anything. 

Uncle  Sol,  who  had  come  home,  received  them  at  the  door, 
and  ushered  them  immediately  into  the  little  back-parlor; 
strangely  altered  by  the  absence  of  Walter.  On  the  table,  and 
ftbout  the  room,  were  the  charts  and  maps  on  which  the  heavy^ 


FLORENCE  SOLITARY.  325 

hearted  Instrument-maker  had  again  and  again  tracked  the 
missing  vessel  across  the  sea,  and  on  which,  with  a  pair  of 
compasses  that  he  still  had  in  his  hand,  he  had  been  measuring, 
a  minute  before,  how  far  she  must  have  driven,  to  have  driven 
here  or  there  :  and  trying  to  demonstrate  that  a  long  time  must 
elapse  before  hope  was  exhausted. 

"  Whether  she  can  have  run,"  said  Uncle  Sol,  looking  wist- 
fully over  the  chart ;  "  but  no,  that's  almost  impossible.  Or 
whether  she  can  have  been  forced  by  stress  of  weather, — but 
that's  not  reasonably  likely.  Or  whether  there  is  any  hope  she 
so  far  changed  her  course  as — but  even  I  can  hardly  hope 
that !  "  With  such  broken  suggestions,  poor  old  Uncle  Sol 
roamed  over  the  great  sheet  before  him,  and  could  not  find  a 
speck  of  hopeful  probability  in  it  large  enough  to  set  one  small 
point  of  the  compasses  upon. 

Florence  saw  immediately — it  would  have  been  difficult  to 
help  seeing — that  there  was  a  singular  indescribable  change  in 
the  old  man,  and  that  while  his  manner  was  far  more  restless 
and  unsettled  than  usual,  there  was  yet  a  curious,  contradictory 
decision  in  it,  that  perplexed  her  very  much.  She  fancied  once 
that  he  spoke  wildly,  and  at  random  ;  for  on  her  saying  she  re- 
gretted not  to  have  seen  him  when  she  had  been  there  before 
that  morning,  he  at  first  replied  that  he  had  been  to  see  her, 
and  directly  afterwards  seemed  to  wish  to  recall  that  answer. 

"  You  have  been  to  see  me  ?  "  said  Florence.     "  To-day  ?  " 

"  Yes,  my  dear  young  lady,"  returned  Uncle  Sol,  looking  at 
her  and  away  from  her  in  a  confused  manner.  "  I  wished  to 
see  you  with  my  own  eyes,  and  to  hear  you  with  my  own  ears, 
once  more  before — "     There  he  stopped. 

"  Before  when  ?  Before  what  ?  "  said  Florence,  putting  her 
hand  upon  his  arm. 

"  Did  I  say  '  before  ? '  "  replied  Old  Sol.  "  If  I  did,  I  must 
have  meant  before  we  should  have  news  of  my  dear  boy." 

"  You  are  not  well,"  said  Florence,  tenderly.  "  You  have 
been  so  very  anxious.     I  am  sure  you  are  not  well." 

"  I  am  as  well,"  returned  the  old  man,  shutting  up  his  right 
hand,  and  holding  it  out  to  show  her  :  "  as  well  and  firm  as  any 
man  at  my  time  of  life  can  hope  to  be.  See  !  It's  steady.  Is 
its  master  not  as  capable  of  resolution  and  fortitude  as  many  a 
younger  man  ?     I  think  so.     We  shall  see." 

There  was  that  in  his  manner  more  than  in  his  words, 
though  they  remained  with  her  too,  which  impressed  Florence 
so  much,  that  she  would  have  confided  her  uneasiness  to  Cap- 
tain Cuttle  at  that  moment,  if  the  Captain  had  not  seized  that 


J26  DOM  BE  y  AND  SON. 

moment  for  expounding  the  state  of  circumstances  on  which 
the  opinion  of  the  sagacious  Bunsby  was  requested,  and  entreat- 
ing that  profound  authority  to  deliver  the  same. 

Bunsby,  whose  eye  continued  to  be  addressed  to  somewhere 
about  the  half-way  house  between  London  and  Gravesend,  two 
or  three  times  put  out  his  rough  right  arm,  as  seeking  to  wind 
it  for  inspiration  round  the  fair  form  of  Miss  Nipper  ;  but  that 
young  female  having  withdrawn  herself,  in  displeasure,  to  the 
opposite  side  of  the  table,  the  soft  heart  of  the  Commander  of 
the  Cautious  Clara  met  with  no  response  to  its  impulses.  After 
sundry  failures  in  this  wise,  the  Commander,  addressing  him- 
self to  nobody,  thus  spake  ;  or  rather,  the  voice  within  him  said 
of  its  own  accord,  and  quite  independent  of  himself,  as  if  he 
were  possessed  by  a  gruff  spirit : 

"  My  name's  Jack  Bunsby  I  " 

"  He  was  christened  John,"  cried  the  delighted  Captain 
Cuttle.     "  Hear  him  !  " 

"  And  what  I  says,"  pursued  the  voice,  after  some  delibera- 
tion, "  I  stands  to." 

The  Captain,  with  Florence  on  his  arm,  nodded  at  the  audi- 
tory, and  seemed  to  say,  "  Now  he's  coming  out.  This  is  what 
I  meant  when  I  brought  him." 

"Whereby,"  proceeded  the  voice,  "why  not.^  If  so,  what 
odds  ?     Can  any  man  say  otherwise  ?     No.     Awast  then  !  " 

When  it  had  pursued  its  train  of  argument  to  this  point,  the 
voice  stopped,  and  rested.  It  then  proceeded  very  slowly, 
thus  : 

"  Do  I  believe  this  here  Son  and  Heir's  gone  down,  my 
lads?  Mayhap.  Do  I  say  so?  Which  ?  If  a  skipper  stands 
out  by  Sen'  George's  Channel,  making  for  the  Downs,  what's 
right  ahead  of  him  ?  The  Goodwins.  He  isn't  forced  to  run 
upon  the  Goodwins,  but  he  may.  The  bearings  of  this  obser- 
vation lays  in  the  application  on  it.  That  a'nt  no  part  of  my 
duty.  Awast  then,  keep  a  bright  look-out  for'ard  and  good 
luck  to  you  !  " 

The  voice  1  ere  went  out  of  the  back  parlor  and  into  the 
street,  taking  the  Commander  of  the  Cautious  Clara  with  it, 
and  accompanying  him  on  board  again  with  all  convenient  ex- 
pedition, where  he  immediately  turned  in,  and  refreshed  his 
mind  with  a  nap. 

The  students  of  the  sage's  precepts,  left  to  their  own  applica- 
tion of  his  wisdom  upon  a  principle  which  was  the  main  leg  of 
the  Bunsby  tripod,  as  it  is  perchance  of  some  other  oracular 
'tools — looked  upon  one  another  in  a  little  uncertainty ;  while 


h'LOkENCE  SOLITARY. 


m 


Rob  the  Grinder,  who  had  taken  tlie  innocent  treedoni  of  peer- 
ing in,  and  listening,  through  the  skylight  in  the  roof,  came 
softly  down  from  the  leads,  in  a  state  of  very  dense  confusion. 
Captain  C^uttle,  however,  whose  admiration  of  Bunsby  was,  if 
possible,  enhanced  by  the  splendid  manner  in  which  he  liad 
iustifiedhis  reputation  and  come  through  this  solemn  reference, 
proceeded  to  explain  that  Bunsby  meant  nothing  but  confidence  ; 
that  Bunsby  had  no  misgivings  ;  and  that  such  an  opinion  as 
that  man  had  given,  coming  from  such  a  mind  as  his,  was 
Hope's  own  anchor,  with  good  roads  to  cast  it  in.  Florence 
endeavored  to  believe  that  the  Captain  was  right  ;  but  the 
Nipper,  with  her  arms  tight  folded,  shook  her  head  in  resolute 
denial,  and  had  no  more  trust  in  Bunsby  than  in  Mr.  Perch 
himself. 

The  philosopher  seemed  to  have  left  Uncle  Sol  pretty  much 
where  he  had  found  him,  for  he  still  went  roaming  about  the 
watery  world,  compasses  in  hand,  and  discovering  no  rest  for 
them.  It  was  in  pursuance  of  a  whisper  in  his  ear  from 
Florence,  while  the  old  man  was  absorbed  in  this  pursuit,  that 
Captain  Cuttle  laid  his  heavy  hand  upon  his  shoulder. 
"  What  cheer,  Sol  Gills.?  "  cried  the  Captain,  heartily. 
"  But  so-so,  Ned,"  returned  the  Instrument-maker.  "  I 
have  been  remembering  all  this  afternoon,  that  on  the  very  day 
when  my  boy  entered  Dombey's  house  and  came  home  late  to 
dinner,  sitting  just  there  where  you  stand,  we  talked  of  storm 
and  shipwreck,  and  1  could  hardly  turn  him  from  the  sub- 
ject." 

But  meeting  the  eyes  of  Florence,  which  were  fixed  with 
earnest  scrutiny  upon  his  face,  the  old  man  stopped  and  smiled. 
"  Stand  by,  old  friend  !  "  cried  the  Captain.  "  Look  alive ! 
I  tell  you  what,  Sol  Gills  ;  arter  I've  convoyed  Heart's-delight 
safe  home,"  here  the  Captain  kissed  his  hook  to  Florence,  "I'll 
come  back  and  take  you  in  tow  for  the  rest  of  this  blessed  day. 
You'll  come  and  eat  your  dinner  along  with  me,  Sol,  some- 
wheres  or  another." 

"  Not  to-day,  Ned  !  "  said  the  old  man  quickly,  and  appear- 
ing to  be  unaccountably  startled  by  the  proposition.  "  Not  to- 
day.    I  couldn't  do  it !  " 

"  Why  not  ?  "  returned  the  Captain,  gazing  at  him  in  as- 
tonishment. 

"  I — I  have  so  much  to  do.  I — I  mean  to  think  of,  and 
arrange.  I  couldn't  do  it,  Ned,  indeed.  I  must  go  out  again, 
and  be  alone,  and  turn  my  mind  to  many  things  to-day." 

The  Captain  looked  at  the   Instrument-maker,  and  looked 


^28  bOMBEV  AA'D  SOX. 

at  Florence,  and  again  at  the  Instrument-maker.     "To-morrow, 
then,"  he  suggested,  at  last. 

"  Yes,  yes.  To-morrow,"  said  the  old  man.  "  Think  of  me 
to-morrow.     Say  to-morrow." 

"  I  shall  come  here  early,  mind,  Sol  Gills,"  stipulated  the 
Captain. 

"  Yes,  yes.  The  first  thing  to-morrow  morning,"  said  old 
Sol ;  "  and  now  good-by,  Ned  Cuttle,  and  God  bless  you  !  " 

Squeezing  both  the  Captain's  hands,  with  uncommon  fervor 
as  he  said  it,  the  old  man  turned  to  Florence,  folded  hers  in  his 
own,  and  put  them  to  his  lips  ;  then  hurried  her  out  to  the  coach 
with  very  singular  precipitation.  Altogether,  he  made  such  an 
effect  on  Captain  Cuttle  that  the  Captain  lingered  behind,  and 
instructed  Rob  to  be  particularly  gentle  and  attentive  to  his 
master  until  the  morning  :  which  injunction  he  strengthened 
with  the  payment  of  one  shilling  down,  and  the  promise  of 
another  sixpence  before  noon  next  day.  This  kind  office  per- 
formed. Captain  Cuttle,  who  considered  himself  the  natural  and 
lawful  body-guard  of  Florence,  mounted  the  box  with  a  mighty 
sense  of  his  trust,  and  escorted  her  home.  At  parting,  he 
assured  her  that  he  would  stand  by  Sol  Gills,  close  and  true ; 
and  once  again  inquired  of  Susan  Nipper,  unable  to  forget  her 
gallant  words  in  reference  to  Mrs.  MacStinger,  "  Would  you. 
do  you  think,  my  dear,  though  !  " 

When  the  desolate  house  had  closed  upon  the  two,  the 
Captain's  thoughts  reverted  to  the  old  Instrument-maker,  and 
he  felt  uncomfortable.  Therefore  instead  of  going  home,  he 
walked  up  and  down  the  street  several  times,  and  eking  out 
his  leisure  until  evening,  dined  late  at  a  certain  angular  little 
tavern  in  the  City,  with  a  public  parlor  like  a  wedge,  to  which 
glazed  hats  much  resorted.  The  Captain's  principal  intention 
was  to  pass  Sol  (iills's  after  dark,  and  look  in  through  the 
window  :  which  he  did.  The  parlor  door  stood  open,  and  he 
could  see  his  old  friend  writing  busily  and  steadily  at  the  table 
within,  while  the  little  Midshipman,  already  sheltered  from  the 
night  dews,  watched  him  from  the  counter  ;  under  which  Rob 
the  Grinder  made  his  own  bed,  preparatory  to  shutting  the 
shop.  Re-assured  by  the  tranquillity  that  reigned  within  the 
precincts  of  the  wooden  mariner,  the  Captain  lieaded  for  Brig 
Place,  resolving  to  weigh  anchor  betimes  in  the  morning. 


THE  STUDY  OF  A  LOVING  HEART.  329 

CHAPTER   XXIV. 

THE    STUDY    OF    A    LOVING    HEART. 

Sir  Barnet  and  Lady  Skettles,  very  good  people,  resided 
in  a  pretty  villa  at  Fulham,  on  the  banks  of  the  Thames  ; 
which  was  one  of  the  most  desirable  residences  in  the  world 
wheo  a  rowing-match  happened  to  be  going  past,  but  had  its 
little  inconveniences  at  other  times,  among  which  may  be  enu- 
merated the  occasional  appearance  of  the  river  in  the  drawing- 
room,  and  the  contemporaneous  disappearance  of  the  lawn  and 
shrubbery. 

Sir  Barnet  Skettles  expressed  his  personal  consequence 
chiefly  through  an  antique  gold  snuff-box,  and  a  ponderous  silk 
pocket-handkerchief,  which  he  had  an  imposing  manner  of 
drawing  out  of  his  pocket  like  a  banner,  and  using  with  both 
hands  at  once.  Sir  Barnet's  object  in  life  was  constantly  to 
extend  the  range  of  his  acquaintance.  Like  a  heavy  body 
dropped  into  water — not  to  disparage  so  worthy  agentleman  by 
the  comparison — it  was  in  the  nature  of  things  that  Sir  Barnet 
must  spread  an  ever-widening  circle  about  him,  until  there 
was  no  room  left.  Or,  like  a  sound  in  air,  the  vibration  of 
which,  according  to  the  speculation  of  an  ingenious  modern 
philosopher,  may  go  on  travelling  for  ever  through  the  intermi- 
nable fields  of  space,  nothing  but  coming  to  the  end  of  his 
moral  tether  could  stop  Sir  Barnet  Skettles  in  his  voyage  of 
discovery  through  the  social  system. 

Sir  Barnet  was  proud  of  making  people  acquainted  with 
people.  He  liked  the  thing  for  its  own  sake,  and  it  advanced 
his  favorite  object  too.  For  example,  if  Sir  Barnet  had  the 
good  fortune  to  get  hold  of  a  raw  recruit,  or  a  country  gentle- 
man, and  ensnared  him  to  his  hospitable  villa.  Sir  Barnet  would 
say  to  him,  on  the  morning  after  his  arrival,  "  Now,  my  dear  Sir, 
is  there  anybody  you  would  like  to  know  ?  Who  is  there  you 
Avould  wish  to  meet  ?  Do  you  take  any  interest  in  writing 
people,  or  in  painting  or  sculpturing  people,  or  in  acting  people, 
or  in  anything  of  that  sort  "i  "  Possibly  the  patient  answered 
yes,  and  mentioned  somebody,  of  whom  Sir  Barnet  had  no 
more  personal  knowledge  than  of  Ptolemy  the  Great.  Sir 
Barnet  replied,  that  nothing  on  earth  was  easier,  as  he  knew 
him  very  well :  immediately  called  on  the  aforesaid  somebody, 


330 


DOMBF.Y  AND  SON. 


left  his  card,  wrote  a  short  note, — "  My  clear  Sir — penalty  of 
your  eminent  position — friend  at  my  house  naturally  desirous 
— Lady  Skettles  and  myself  participate — trust  that  genius  being 
superior  to  ceremonies,  you  will  do  us  the  distinguished  favor 
of  giving  us  the  pleasure,"  &c.,  &c. — and  so  killed  a  brace  of 
birds  with  one  stone,  dead  as  door-nails. 

With  the  snuff-box  and  banner  in  full  force.  Sir  Barnet 
Skettles  propounded  his  usual  inquiry  to  Florence  on  the  first 
morning  of  her  visit.  When  Florence  thanked  him,  and  said 
there  was  no  one  in  particular  whom  she  desired  to  see,  it  was 
natural  she  should  think  with  a  pang,  of  poor  lost  Walter. 
When  Sir  Barnet  Skettles,  urging  his  kind  offer,  said,  "  My 
dear  Miss  Dombey,  are  you  sure  you  can  remember  no  one 
whom  your  good  Papa — to  whom  I  beg  you  to  present  the  best 
compliments  of  myself  and  Lady  Skettles  when  you  write — 
might  wish  you  to  know  ?  "  it  was  natural,  perhaps,  that  her 
poor  head  should  droop  a  little,  and  that  her  voice  should 
tremble  as  it  softly  answered  in  the  negative. 

Skettles  Junior,  much  stiffened  as  to  his  cravat,  and  sobered 
down  as  to  his  spirits,  was  at  home  for  the  holidays,  and  ap- 
peared to  feel  himself  aggrieved  by  the  solicitude  of  his  ex- 
cellent mother  that  he  should  be  attentive  to  Florence, 
Anot];er  and  a  deeper  injury  under  which  the  soul  of  young 
Barnet  chafed,  was  the  company  of  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Blimber,  who 
had  been  mvited  on  a  visit  to  the  paternal  roof-tree,  and  of 
whom  the  young  gentleman  often  said  he  would  have  preferred 
their  passing  the  vacation  at  Jericho. 

"  Is  there  anybody  ji-f//;  can  suggest,  now,  Doctor  Blimber  ?  " 
said  Sir  Barnet  Skettles,  turning  to  that  gendeman. 

"  You  are  very  kind.  Sir  Barnet,"  returned  Doctor  Blimber. 
"  Really  I  am  not  aware  that  there  is,  in  particular.  I  like  to 
"know  my  fellow  men  in  general.  Sir  Barnet.  What  does 
Terence  say  ?  Any  one  who  is  the  parent  of  a  son  is  interesting 
to  w^." 

"  Has  Mrs.  Blimber  any  wish  to  see  any  remarkable  per- 
son ?  "  asked  Sir  Barnet,  courteously. 

Mrs.  Blimber  replied,  with  a  sweet  smile  and  a  shake  of  her 
sky-blue  cap,  that  if  Sir  Barnet  could  have  made  her  known  to 
Cicero,  she  would  have  troubled  him  ;  but  such  an  introduction 
not  being  feasible,  and  she  already  enjoying  the  friendship  of 
himself  and  his  amiable  lady,  and  possessing  with  the  Doctor 
her  husband  their  joint  conhdence  in  regard  to  their  dear  son 
— here  young  Barnet  was  obsen-pfl  to  curl  his  nose — she  askecf 
no  more. 


THE  STUDY  OP  A  LOVING  HEART. 


z:!,^ 


Sir  Barnet  was  fain,  under  these  circumstances,  to  content 
himself  for  the  time  with  the  company  assembled.  Florence 
was  glad  of  that  ;  for  she  had  a  study  to  pursue  among  them, 
and  it  lay  too  near  her  heart,  and  was  too  precious  and  momen- 
tous, to  yield  to  any  other  interest. 

There  were  some  children  staying  in  the  house.  Children 
who  were  as  frank  and  happy  with  fathers  and  with  mothers  as 
those  rosy  faces  opposite  home.  Children  who  had  no  restraint 
upon  their  love,  and  freely  showed  it.  Florence  sought  to 
learn  their  secret ;  sought  to  find  out  what  it  was  she  had 
missed  ;  what  simple  art  they  knew,  and  she  knew  not ;  how 
she  could  be  taught  by  them  to  show  her  father  that  she  loved 
him,  and  to  win  his  love  again. 

Many  a  day  did  Florence  thoughtfully  observe  these  chil- 
dren. On  many  a  bright  morning  did  she  leave  her  bed  when 
the  glorious  sun  rose,  and  walking  up  and  down  upon  the 
river's  bank,  before  any  one  in  the  house  was  stirring,  look  up  at 
the  windows  of  their  rooms,  and  think  of  them,  asleep,  so  gently 
tended  and  affectionately  thought  of.  Florence  would  feel 
more  lonely  then,  than  in  the  great  house  all  alone  ;  and  would 
think  sometimes  that  she  was  better  there  than  here,  and  that 
there  was  greater  peace  in  hiding  herself  than  in  mingling  with 
others  of  her  age,  and  finding  how  unlike  them  all  she  was. 
But  attentive  to  her  study,  though  it  touched  her  to  the  quick 
at  every  little  leaf  she  turned  in  the  hard  book,  Florence  re- 
mained among  them,  and  tried,  with  patient  hope,  to  gain  the 
knowledge  that  she  wearied  for. 

Ah  !  how  to  gain  it !  how  to  know  the  charm  in  its  begin- 
ning !  There  were  daughters  here,  who  rose  up  in  the  morning, 
and  lay  down  to  rest  at  night,  possessed  of  fathers'  hearts  al- 
ready. They  had  no  repulse  to  overcome,  no  coldness  to 
dread,  no  frown  to  smooth  away.  As  the  morning  advanced, 
and  the  windows  opened  one  by  one,  and  the  dew  began  to  dry 
upon  the  flowers  and  grass,  and  youthful  feet  began  to  move 
upon  the  lawn,  Florence,  glancing  round  at  the  bright  faces, 
thought  what  was  there  she  could  learn  from  these  children  ? 
It  was  too  late  to  learn  from  them  ;  each  could  approach  her 
father  fearlessly,  and  put  up  her  lips  to  meet  the  ready  kiss, 
and  wind  her  arm  about  the  neck  that  bent  down  to  caress 
her.  She  could  not  begin  by  being  so  bold.  Oh  !  could  it 
be  that  there  was  less  and  less  hope  as  she  studied  more  and 
more !  ,      ,    j 

She  remembered  well,  that  e\en  the  old  woman  who  had 
jobbed  her  when  a  little  child — whose  image  and  whose  house, 


332 


DOMBEY  AND  SOX. 


and  all  she  had  said  and  done,  were  stamped  upon  her  reo 
ollection,  with  the  enduring  sharpness  of  a  fearful  impression 
made  at  that  early  period  of  life — had  spoken  fondly  of  her 
daughter,  and  how  terribly  even  she  had  cried  out  in  the  pain 
of  hopeless  separation  from  her  child.  But  her  own  mother, 
she  would  think  again,  when  she  recalled  this,  had  loved  her 
well.  Then,  sometimes,  when  her  thoughts  reverted  swiftly 
to  the  void  between  herself  and  her  father,  Florence  would 
tremble,  and  the  tears  would  start  upon  her  face,  as  she  pic- 
tured to  herself  her  mother  living  on,  and  coming  also  to  dislike 
her,  because  of  her  wanting  the  unknown  grace  that  should 
conciliate  that  father  naturally,  and  had  never  done  so  from 
her  cradle.  She  knew  that  this  imagination  did  wrong  to  her 
mother's  memor}-,  and  had  no  truth  in  it,  or  base  to  rest  upon  ; 
and  yet  she  tried  so  hard  to  justify  him,  and  to  find  the  whole 
blame  in  herself,  that  she  could  not  resist  its  passing,  like  a 
wild  cloud,  through  the  distance  of  her  mind. 

There  came  among  the  other  visitors,  soon  after  Florence, 
one  beautiful  girl,  three  or  four  years  younger  than  she,  who 
was  an  orphan  child,  and  who  was  accompanied  by  her  aunt,  a 
gray-haired  lady,  who  spoke  nuich  to  Florence,  and  who  greatly 
liked  (but  that  they  all  did)  to  hear  her  sing  of  an  evening,  and 
would  always  sit  near  her  at  that  time,  with  motherly  interest. 
They  had  only  been  two  days  in  the  house,  when  Florence, 
being  in  an  arbor  in  the  garden  one  warm  morning,  musingly 
observant  of  a  youthful  group  upon  the  turf,  through  some  in- 
tervening boughs,  and  wreathing  flowers  for  the  head  of  one 
little  creature  among  them  who  was  the  pet  and  plaything  of 
the  rest,  heard  this  same  lady  and  her  niece,  in  pacing  up  and 
down  a  sheltered  nook  close  by,  speak  of  herself. 

"  Is  Florence  an  orphan  like  me,  aunt  ?  "  said  the  child. 

"  No,  my  love.  She  has  no  mother,  but  her  father  is 
living." 

"  Is  she  in  mourning  for  her  poor  mama,  now  ?  "  inquired 
the  child  quickly. 

"  No  ;  for  her  only  brother." 

"  Has  she  no  other  brother  ? ' 

"  None." 

'  No  sister?  " 

"  None." 

•'  I  am  very,  ver>-  sorry !  "  said  the  little  girl. 

As  they  stopped  soon  afterwards  to  watch  some  boats,  and 
had  been  silent  in  the  mean  time,  Florence,  who  had  risen  when 
she  heard  her  name,  and  had  gathered  up  her  flowers  to  go  and 


The  study  of  a  loving  heart.  333 

meet  them,  that  they  might  know  of  her  being  within  hearing, 
resumed  her  seat  and  work,  expecting  to  hear  no  more  ;  but 
the  conversation  recommenced  next  moment. 

"  Florence  is  a  favorite  with  every  one  here,  and  deserves 
to  be,  I  am  sure,"  said  the  child,  earnestly.  "  Where  is  her 
papa  ?  " 

The  aunt  replied,  after  a  moment's  pause,  that  she  did  not 
know.  Her  tone  of  voice  arrested  Florence,  who  had  started 
from  her  seat  again ;  and  held  her  fastened  to  the  spot,  with 
her  work  hastily  caught  up  to  her  bosom,  and  her  two  hands 
saving  it  from  being  scattered  on  the  ground. 

"  He  is  in  England,  I  hope  aunt  ? "  said  the  child. 

"  I  believe  so.     Yes  ;  I  know  he  is,  indeed." 

"  Has  he  ever  been  here  ? " 

"  I  believe  not.     No." 

"  Is  he  coming  here  to  see  her  ?  " 

"  I  believe  not." 

"  Is  he  lame,  or  blind,  or  ill,  aunt  ? "  asked  the  child. 

The  flowers  that  Florence  held  to  her  breast  began  to  fall 
when  she  heard  those  words,  so  wonderingly  spoken.  She  held 
them  closer ;  and  her  face  hung  down  upon  them. 

"  Kate,"  said  the  lady,  after  another  moment  of  silence,  "  I 
will  tell  you  the  whole  truth  about  Florence  as  I  have  heard  it, 
and  believe  it  to  be.  Tell  no  one  else,  my  dear,  because  it 
may  be  little  known  here,  and  your  doing  so  would  give  her 
pain." 

"  I  never  will !  "   exclaimed  the  child. 

"  I  know  you  never  will,"  returned  the  lady.  "  I  can  trust 
you  as  myself.  I  fear  then,  Kate,  that  Florence's  father  cares 
little  for  her,  very  seldom  sees  her,  never  was  kind  to  her  in  her 
life,  and  now  quite  shuns  her  and  avoids  her.  She  would  love 
him  dearly  if  he  would  suffer  her,  but  he  will  not— though  for 
no  fault  of  hers  ;  and  she  is  greatly  to  be  loved  and  pitied  by 
all  gentle  hearts." 

More  of  the  flowers  that  Florence  held,  fell  scattering  on  the 
ground  ;  those  that  remained  were  wet,  but  not  with  dew  ;  and 
her  face  dropped  upon  her  laden  hands. 

"  Poor  Florence  !     Dear,  good  Florence  ! "  cried  the  child. 

"  Do  you  know  why  I  have  told  you  this,  Kate  ?  "  said  the 
lady. 

"  That  I  may  be  very  kind  to  her,  and  take  great  care  to 
try  to  please  her.     Is  that  the  reason,  aunt  ?  " 

"  Partly,"  said  the  lady,  "  but  not  all.  Though  we  see  her 
50  cheerful ;  with  a  pleasant  smile  for  every  one  ;  ready  to  oblige 


334  DOMBEY  AMD  ^OM. 

us  all,  and  bearing  her  part  In  every  amusement  here  ;  she  carl 
hardly  be  quite  happr,  do  you  think  she  can,  Kate  ?" 

"  I  am  afraid  not,"  said  the  little  girl. 

"  And  you  can  understand,"  pursued  the  lady,  '*  why  her 
observation  of  children  who  have  parents  who  are  fond  of 
them,  and  proud  of  them — like  many  here,  just  now — should 
make  her  sorrowful  in  secret?" 

"  Yes,  dear  aunt,"  said  the  child,  "I  understand  that  very- 
well.     Poor  Florence  !  " 

More  flowers  strayed  upon  the  ground,  and  those  she  yet 
held  to  her  breast  trembled  as  if  a  wintry  wind  were  rustling 
them. 

"  My  Kate,"  said  the  lady,  whose  voice  was  serious,  but 
very  calm  and  sweet,  and  had  so  impressed  Florence  from  the 
first  moment  of  her  hearing  it,  '*  Of  all  the  youthful  people 
here,  you  are  her  natural  and  harmless  friend  ;  you  have  not 
the  innocent  means,  that  happier  children  have — " 

"There  are  none  happier,  aunt  I"  exclaimed  the  child,  who 
seemed  to  cling   about  her. 

— "As  other  children  have,  drar  Kate,  of  reminding  her  of 
her  misfortune.  Therefore  I  would  have  you,  when  you  try  to 
be  her  little  friend,  try  all  the  more  for  that,  and  feel  that  the 
bereavement  you  sustained— thank  Heaven  !  before  you  knew 
its  weight — gives    you  claim  and  hold  upon  poor  Florence." 

*'  But  I  am  not  without  a  parent's  love,  aunt,  aiid  I  never 
have  been,"  said   the  child,  "  with  you." 

"  However  that  may  be,  my  dear,"  returned  the  lady,  ''your 
misfortune  is  a  lighter  one  than  Florence's  ;  for  not  an  orphan 
in  the  wide  world  can  be  so  deserted  as  the  child  who  is  an  out- 
cast from  a  living  parent's  love." 

The  flowers  were  scattered  on  the  ground  like  dust  ; 
the  empty  hands  were  spread  upon  the  face  ;  and  orphaned 
Florence,  shrinking  down  upon  the  ground,  wept  long  and 
bitterly. 

But  true  of  heart  and  resolute  in  her  good  purpose,  Flor- 
ence held  to  it  as  her  dying  mother  held  by  her  upon  the  day 
that  gave  Paul  life.  He  did  not  know  how  much  she  loved  him. 
How  ver  long  the  time  in  coming,  and  however  slow  the  inter- 
val, she  must  try  to  bring  that  knowledge  to  her  father's  heart 
one  day  or  other.  Meantime  she  must  be  careful  in  no  thought- 
less word,  or  look,  or  burst  of  feeling  awakened  by  any  chance 
circumstance,  to  complain  against  him,  or  to  give  occasion  for 
these  whispers  to  his  prejudice. 

Even  in  the  response  she  made  the  orphan  child,  to  whom 


THE  STUDV  OF  A  LOVING  HEART. 


%%i 


she  was  attracted  strongly,  and  whom  she  had  such  occasion  to 
remember,  Florence  was  mindful  of  him.  If  she  singled  her 
out  too  plainly  (Florence  thought)  from  among  the  rest,  she 
would  confirm — in  one  mind  certainly:  perhaps  in  more — the 
belief  that  he  was  cruel  and  unnatural.  Her  own  delight  was 
no  set-off  to  this.  What  she  had  overheard  was  a  reason,  not 
for  soothing  herself,  but  for  saving  him  ;  and  Florence  did  it,  In 
pursuance  of  the  study  of  her  heart. 

She  did  so  always.  If  a  book  were  read  aloud,  and  there 
were  anything  in  the  story  that  pointed  at  an  unkind  father,  she 
was  in  pain  for  their  application  of  it  to  him  ;  not  for  herself. 
So  with  any  tritie  of  an  interlude  that  was  acted,  or  picture  that 
was  shown,  or  game  that  was  played,  among  them.  The  occa- 
sions for  such  tenderness  towards  him  were  so  many,  that  her 
mind  misgave  her  often,  it  would  indeed  be  better  to  go  back 
to  the  old  house,  and  live  again  within  the  shadow  of  its  dull 
walls,  undisturbed.  How  few  who  saw  sweet  Florence,  in  her 
spring  of  womanhood,  the  modest  little  queen  of  those  small 
revels,  imagined  what  a  load  of  sacred  care  lay  heavy  in  her 
breast  !  How  few  of  those  who  stiffened  in  her  father's  freez- 
ing atmosphere,  suspected  what  a  heap  of  fiery  coals  was  piled 
upon  his  head  ! 

Florence  pursued  her  study  patiently,  and,  failing  to. acquire 
the  secret  of  the  nameless  grace  she  sought,  among  the  youth- 
ful company  who  were  assembled  in  the  house,  often  walked  out 
alone,  in  the  early  morning,  among  the  children  of  the  poor. 
But  still  she  found  them  all  too  far  advanced  to  learn  from. 
They  had  won  their  household  places  long  ago,  and  did  not 
stand  without,  as  she  did,  with  a  bar  across  the  door. 

There  was  one  man  whom  she  several  times  observed  at 
work  very  early,  and  often  with  a  girl  of  about  her  own  age 
seated  near  him.  He  was  a  very  poor  man,  who  seemed  to 
have  no  regular  employment,  but  now  went  roaming  about  the 
banks  of  tlie  river  when  the  tide  was  low,  looking  out  for  bits 
and  scraps  in  the  mud  ;  and  now  worked  at  the  unpromising 
little  patch  of  garden-ground  before  his  cottage  :  and  now 
tinkered  up  a  miserable  old  boat  that  belonged  to  him  ;  or  did 
some  job  of  that  kind  for  a  neighbor,  as  chance  occurred.  What- 
ever the  man's  labor,  the  girl  was  never  employed  ;  but  sat, 
when  she  was  with  him,  in  a  listless,  moping  state,  and  idle. 

Florence  had  often  wished  to  speak  to  this  man  ;  yet  she 
had  never  taken  courage  to  do  so,  as  he  made  no  movement  to- 
wards her.  But  one  morning  when  she  happened  to  come  upon 
him  suddenly,  from  a  by-path  among  some  pollard  willows  which 


3^6  DOMBRV  AMD  .VtJ.V. 

terminated  .n  the  little  shelving  piece  of  stony  ground  thac  'Vk\ 
between  his  dwelling  and  the  water,  where  he  was  bending  cvei 
a  fire  he  had  made  to  caulk  the  old  boat  which  was  lying  bot- 
tom upwards,  close  by,  he  raised  his  head  at  the  sound  of  her 
footstep,  and  gave  her  Good-morning. 

"Good-morning,"  said  P'lorence,  approaching  nearer,  "you 
are  at  work  early." 

"  I'd  be  glad  to  be  often  at  work  earlier,  Miss,  if  I  had  work 
to  do." 

"  Is  it  so  hard  to  get  ?  "  asked  Florence. 

"/find  it  so,"  replied  the  man. 

Florence  glanced  to  where  the  girl  was  sitting  drawn  to- 
gether, with  her  elbows  on  her  knees,  and  her  chin  on  her  hands, 
and  said  : 

"  Is  that  your  daughter  ?  " 

He  raised  his  head  quickly,  and  looking  towards  the  girl 
with  a  brightened  face,  nodded  to  her,  and  said  "  Yes."  Flor- 
ence looked  towards  her  too,  and  gave  her  a  kind  salutation  ; 
the  girl  muttered  something  in  return,  ungraciously  and  sul- 
lenly. 

"  Is  she  in  want  of  employment  also  ? "  said  Florence. 

The  man  shook  his  head.  "  No,  Miss,"  he  said.  "  I  work 
for  both." 

"  Are  there  only  you  two  then  ?  "  inquired  Florence. 

"  Only  us  two,"  said  the  man.  "  Her  mother  has  been  dead 
these  ten  year.  Martha !  "  (he  lifted  up  his  head  again,  and 
whistled  to  her)  "  Won't  you  say  a  word  to  the  pretty  young 
lady  ? " 

The  girl  made  an  impatient  gesture  with  her  cowering 
shoulders,  and  turned  her  head  another  way.  Ugly,  misshapen, 
peevish,  ill-conditioned,  ragged,  dirty — but  beloved  !  Oh,  yes  ! 
Florence  had  seen  her  father's  look  towards  her,  and  she  knew 
whose  look  it  had  no  likeness  to. 

"  I'm  afraid  she's  worse  this  morning,  my  poor  girl  !  "  said 
the  man,  suspending  his  work,  and  contemplating  his  ill-favored 
child,  with  a  compassion  that  was  the  more  tender  for  being 
rough. 

"  She  is  ill,  then  !  "  said  Florence. 

The  man  drew  a  deep  sigh.  "  I  don't  believe  my  Martha's 
had  five  short  days'  good  health,"  he  answered,  looking  at  her 
still,  "  in  as  many  long  years." 

"Ay  I  and  more  than  that,  John,"  said  a  neighbor,  who 
had  come  down  to  help  him  with  the  boat. 

"  More  than  that,  you  say,  do  you  ? "  cried  the  other,  push- 


THE  STUDY  OF  A  LOVING  HEART.  337 

ing  back   his  battered  hat,  and  drawing  his  hand  across  his 
forehead.     "  Very  like.     It  seems  a  long,  long  time." 

"  And  the  more  the  time,"  pursued  the  neighbor,  "  the  more 
you've  favored  and  humored  her,  John,  'till  she's  got  to  be  a 
burden  to  herself,  and  everybody  else." 

"  Not  to  me,"  said  her  father,  falling  to  his  work  again. 
■"  Not  to  me." 

Florence  couid  feel — who  better? — how  truly  he  spokt.. 
She  drew  a  little  closer  to  him,  and  would  have  been  glad  to 
touch  his  rugged  hand,  and  thank  him  for  his  goodness  to  the 
miserable  object  that  he  looked  upon  with  eyes  so  different  from 
any  other  man's. 

"Who  would  favor  my  poor  girl — to  call  it  favoring — if  1 
didn't }  "  said  the  father. 

"  Ay,  ay,"  cried  the  neighbor.  "  In  reason,  John.  But  you! 
You  rob  yourself  to  give  to  her.  You  bind  yourself  hand  and  foot 
on  her  account.  You  make  your  life  miserable  along  of  her. 
And  what  does  she  care  !     You  don't  believe  she  knows  it  ?  " 

The  father  lifted  up  his  head  again,  and  whistled  to  her. 
Martha  made  the  same  impatient  gesture  with  her  crouching 
shoulders,  in  reply  ;  and  he  was  glad  and  happy. 

"  Only  for  that.  Miss,"  said  the  neighbor,  with  a  smile,  in 
which  there  was  more  of  secret  sympathy  than  he  expressed  : 
"  only  to  get  that,  he  never  lets  her  out  of  his  sight !  " 

"  Because  the  day'll  come,  and  has  been  coming  a  long 
while,"  observed  the  other,  bending  low  over  his  work,  "when 
to  get  half  as  much  from  that  unfort'nate  child  of  mine — to  get 
the  trembling  of  a  finger,  or  the  waving  of  a  hair — wouM  be  to 
raise  the  dead." 

Florence  softly  put  some  money  near  his  hand  on  the  old 
boat,  and  left  him. 

And  now  Florence  began  to  think,  if  she  were  to  fall  ill,  if 
she  were  to  fade  like  her  dear  brother,  would  he  then  know 
that  she  had  loved  him  ;  would  she  then  grow  dear  to  him, 
would  he  come  to  her  bedside,  when  she  was  weak  and  dim  of 
sight,  and  take  her  into  his  embrace,  and  cancel  all  the  past  ? 
Would  he  so  forgive  her,  in  that  changed  condition,  for  not 
having  been  able  to  lay  open  her  childish  heart  to  him,  as  to 
makeit  easy  to  relate  with  what  emotions  she  had  gone  out  of 
his  room  that  night ;  what  she  had  meant  to  say  if  she  had  had 
the  courage  ;  and  how  she  had  endeavored,  afterwards,  to  learn 
the  way  she  never  knew  in  infancy? 

Yes,  she  thought  if  she  were  dying,  he  would  relent.  She 
thought,  that  if  she  lay,  serene  and  not  unwilling  to  depart, 


538  DOMBEr  AND  so.\ 

upon  the  bed  that  was  curtained  round  with  recollections  of 
their  darling  boy,  he  would  be  touched  home,  and  would  say, 
"  Dear  Florence,  live  for  me,  and  we  will  lo\e  each  other  as  we 
might  have  done,  and  be  as  happy  as  we  might  have  been  these 
many  years  !  '  She  thought  that  if  she  heard  such  words  from 
him,  and  had  her  arms  clasped  round  him,  she  could  answer 
with  a  smile,  "  It  is  too  late  for  anything  but  this  ;  I  never 
could  be  happier,  dear  father?  "  and  so  leave  him,  with  a  bless- 
ing on  her  lips. 

The  golden  water  she  remembered  on  the  wall,  appeared  to 
Florence,  in  the  light  of  such  reflections,  only  as  a  current  flow- 
ing on  to  rest,  and  to  a  region  where  the  dear  ones,  gone  before, 
were  waiting,  hand  in  hand  ;  and  often  when  she  looked  upon 
the  darker  river  rippling  at  her  feet,  she  thought  with  awful 
wonder,  but  not  terror,  of  that  river  which  her  brother  had  so 
often  said  was  bearing  him  away. 

The  father  and  his  sick  daughter  were  yet  fresh  in  Florence's 
mind,  and,  indeed,  that  incident  was  not  a  week  old,  when  Sii 
Barnet  and  his  lady  going  out  walking  in  the  lanes  one  after- 
noon, proposed  to  her  to  bear  them  company.  Florence  readily 
consenting,  Lady  Skettles  ordered  out  young  Barnet  as  a  mat- 
ter of  course.  For  nothing  delighted  Lady  Skettles  so  much, 
as  beholding  her  eldest  son  with  Florence  on  his  arm. 

Barnet,  to  say  the  truth,  appeared  to  enterliin  an  opposite 
sentiment  on  the  subject,  and  on  such  occasions  frequently  ex- 
pressed himself  audibly,  though  indefinitely,  in  reference  to  "  a 
parcel  of  girls."  As  it  was  not  easy  to  ruffle  her  sweet  temper, 
however,  Florence  generally  reconciled  the  young  gentleman  to 
his  fate  after  a  few  minutes,  and  they  strolled  on  amicably  : 
Lady  Skettles  and  Sir  Barnet  following,  in  a  state  of  perfect 
complacency  and  high  gratification. 

This  was  the  order  of  procedure  on  the  afternoon  in  ques- 
tion :  and  Florence  had  almost  succeeded  in  oxerruling  the 
present  objections  of  Skettles  Junior  to  his  destiny,  when  a 
gentleman  on  horseback  came  riding  by,  looked  at  them  earn- 
estly as  he  passed,  drew  in  his  rein,  wheeled  round,  and  came 
riding  back  again,  hat  in  hand. 

The  gentlemari  had  looked  particularly  at  Florence  ;  and 
when  the  little  party  stopped,  on  his  riding  back,  he  bowed  to 
her,  before  saluting  Sir  Barnet  and  his  lady.  Florence  had  no 
remembrance  of  having  ever  seen  him,  but  she  started  involun 
tarily  when  he  came  near  her,  and  drew  back. 

"  My  horse  is  perfectly  quiet,  I  assure  you,"  said  the  gentle- 
maa 


THE  STUDY  OF  A  LOVING  HEART  339 

It  was  not  that,  but  something  in  the  gentleman  himself—. 
Florence  could  not  have  said  what — that  made  her  recoil  as  if 
she  had  been  stung. 

"  I  have  the  honor  to  address  Miss  Dombey,  I  believe  ?  " 
said  the  gentleman,  with  a  most  persuasive  smile.  On  Florence 
inclining  her  head,  he  added,  "My  name  is  Carker.  I  can 
hardly  hope  to  be  remembered  by  Miss  Dombey,  except  by 
name.     Carker." 

Florence,  sensible  of  a  strange  inclination  to  shiver,  though 
the  day  was  hot,  presented  him  to  her  host  and  hostess  ;  by 
whom  he  was  very  graciously  received. 

"  I  beg  pardon,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  "  a  thousand  times  !  But 
I  am  going  down  to-morrow  morning  to  Mr.  Dombey,  at  Leam- 
ington, and  if  Miss  Dombey  can  intrust  me  with  any  commis- 
sion, need  I  say  how  very  happy  I  shall  be  !  " 

Sir  I]arnet  immediately  divining  that  Florence  would  desire 
to  write  a  letter  to  her  father,  proposed  to  return,  and  besought 
Mr,  Carker  to  come  home  and  dine  in  his  riding  gear.  Mr. 
Carker  had  the  misfortune  to  be  engaged  to  dinner,  but  if  Miss 
Dombey  wished  to  write,  nothing  would  delight  him  more  than 
to  accompany  them  back,  and  to  be  her  faithful  slave  in  waiting 
as  long  as  she  pleased.  As  he  said  this  with  his  widest  smile, 
and  bent  down  close  to  her  to  pat  his  horse's  neck,  Florence 
meeting  his  eyes,  saw,  rather  than  heard  him  say,  "  There  is  no 
news  of  the  ship  !  " 

Confused,  frightened,  shrinking  from  him,  and  not  even 
sure  that  he  had  said  those  words,  for  he  seemed  to  have  shown 
them  to  her  in  some  extraordinary  manner  through  his  smile, 
instead  of  uttering  them,  Florence  faintly  said  that  she  was 
obliged  to  him,  but  she  would  not  write  ;  she  had  nothing  to 
say. 

"  Nothing  to  send,  Miss  Dombey  1  "  said  the  man  of  teeth. 

"Nothing,"  said  Florence,  "but  my — but  my  dear  love — if 
Ijrou  please." 

Disturbed  as  Florence  was,  she  raised  her  eyes  to  his  face 
with  an  imploring  and  expressive  look,  that  plainly  besought 
him,  if  he  knew — which  he  as  plainly  did — that  any  message 
between  her  and  her  father  was  an  uncommon  charge,  but  that 
one  most  of  all,  to  spare  her.  Mr.  Carker  smiled  and  bowed 
low,  and  being  charged  by  Sir  Barnet  with  the  best  compliments 
of  himself  and  Lady  Skettles,  took  his  leave  and  rode  away ; 
leaving  a  favorable  impression  on  that  worthy  couple.  Florence 
was  seized  with  such  a  shudder  as  he  went,  that  Sir  Barnet, 
adopting   the   popular   superstition,   supposed    somebody  was 


340  DOMBEY  AND  SOX. 

passing  over  her  grave.  Mr.  Carker,  turning  a  corner,  on  the 
instant,  looked  back,  and  bowed,  and  disappeared,  as  if  he 
rode  off  to  the  churchyard  straight,  to  do  it. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

STRANGE  NEWS  OF  UNCLE  SOL. 


Captain  Cuttle,  though  no  sluggard,  did  not  turn  out  so 
early  on  the  morning  after  he  had  seen  Sol  Gills,  through  the 
shop-window,  writing  in  the  parlor,  with  the  Midshipman  upon 
the  counter,  and  Rob  the  Grinder  making  up  his  bed  below  it, 
but  that  the  clocks  struck  six  as  he  raised  himself  on  his  elbow, 
and  took  a  survey  of  his  lit4tle  chamber.  The  Captain's  eyes 
must  have  done  severe  duty,  if  he  usually  opened  them  as  wide 
on  awaking  as  he  did  that  morning ;  and  were  but  roughly  re- 
warded for  their  vigilance,  if  he  generally  rubbed  them  half  as 
hard.  But  the  occasion  was  no  common  one,  for  Rob  the 
Grinder  had  certainly  never  stood  in  the  doorway  of  Captain 
Cuttle's  bed-room  before,  and  in  it  he  stood  then,  panting  at 
the  Captain,  with  a  flushed  and  touzled  air  of  bed  about  him, 
that  greatly  heightened  both  his  color  and  expression. 

"  Holloa  !  "  roared  the  Captain.     "  \\'hat's  the  matter  ?  " 

Beforo  Rob  could  stammer  a  word  in  answer.  Captain  Cuttle 
turned  out,  all  in  a  heap,  and  covered  the  "boy's  mouth  with  his 
hand, 

"  Steady,  my  lad,"  said  the  Captain,  "  don't  ye  speak  a 
word  to  me  as  yet !  " 

The  Captain,  looking  at  his  visitor  in  great  consternation, 
gently  shouldered  him  into  the  next  room,  after  laying  this  in- 
junction upon  him  ;  and  disappearing  for  a  few  moments, 
forthwith  returned  in  the  blue  suit.  Holding  up  his  hand  in 
token  of  the  injunction  not  yet  being  taken  off.  Captain  Cuttle 
\valked  up  to  tlie  cupboard,  and  poured  himself  out  a  dram  ;  a 
counterpart  of  which  he  handed  to  the  messenger.  The  Captain 
then  stood  himself  up  in  a  corner,  against  the  wall,  as  if  to 
forestall  the  possibility  of  being  knocked  backwards  by  the 
communication  that  was  to  be  made  to  him  ;  and  having  swal- 
lowed his  liquor,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  messenger,  and  his 
face  as  pale  as  his  face  could  be,  requested  him  to  "  heave  a- 
bead." 


STJ^AiVCE  NEWS  OF  UXCLE  SOL. 


341 


"  Do  you  mean,  tell  you,  Captain  ?  "  asked  Rob,  who  had 
btcn  greatly  impressed  by  these  precautions. 

•'  Ay!"  said  the  Captain. 

•"  Well,  sir,"  said  Rob,"  I  ain't  got  much  to  tell.  But  look 
here !  " 

Kob  produced  a  bundle  of  keys.  The  Captain  surveyed 
them,  remained  in  his  corner,  and  surveyed  the  messenger. 

"  And  look  here  !  "  pursued  Rob. 

The  boy  produced  a  sealed  packet,  which  Captain  Cuttle 
stared  at  as  he  had  stared  at  the  keys. 

"  When  1  woke  this  morning,  Captain,"  said  Rob,  "  which 
was  about  a  quarter  after  five,  I  found  these  on  my  pillow. 
The  shop-door  was  unbolted  and  unlocked,  and  Mr.  Gills 
gone." 

"  Gone  !  "  roared  the  Captain. 

"  Flowed,  sir,"  retu-ned  Rob. 

The  Captain's  voice  was  so  tremendous,  and  he  came  out 
of  his  corner  with  such  way  on  him  that  Rob,  retreated  before 
him  into  another  corner  :  holding  out  the  keys  and  packet,  to 
prevent  himself  from  being  run  down. 

"  '  For  Captain  Cuttle,  sir,"  cried  Rob,  "  is  on  the  keys, 
and  on  the  packet  too.  Upon  my  word  and  honor.  Captain 
Cuttle,  I  don't  know  anything  more  about  it.  I  wish  I  may 
die  if  I  do !  Here's  a  sitiwation  for  a  lad  that's  just  got  a 
sitiwation,"  cried  the  unfortunate  Grinder,  screwing  his  cuff 
into  his  face  :  "  his  master  bolted  with  his  place,  and  him 
blamed  for  it !  " 

These  lamentations  had  reference  to  Captain  Cuttle's  gaze, 
or  rather  glare,  which  was  full  of  vague  suspicions,  threatenings 
and  denunciations.  Taking  the  proffered  packet  from  his 
hand,  the  Captain  opened  it  and  read  as  follows : — 

"  My  dear  Ned  Cuttle.  Enclosed  is  my  will !  "  The  Cap- 
tain turned  it  over,  with  a  doubtful  look — "  and  Testament. — 
Where's  the  Testament?"  said  the  Captain,  instantly  impeach- 
ing the  ill-fated  Grinder.  "  What  have  you  done  with  that,  my 
lad  ? " 

"/never  see  it,"  whimpered  Rob.  "Don't  keep  on  sus- 
pecting an  innocent  lad.  Captain.  /  never  touched  the  Testa- 
ment." 

Captain  Cuttle  shook  his  head,  implying  that  somebody 
must  be  made  answerable  for  it ;  and  gravely   proceeded  : — 

"  Which  don't  break  open  for  a  year,  or  until  you,  have 
decisive  intelligence  of  my  dear  Walter,  who  is  dear  to  you, 
Ned,  too,  I  am   sure."     The  Captain  paused  and  shook   hi? 


342  bOMBlZY  AND  SOM. 

head  in  some  emotion  ;  then,  as  a  re-establishment  of  his 
dignity  in  this  trying  position,  looked  with  exceeding  sternness 
at  the  Grinder.  "If  you  should  never  hear  of  me,  or  see  me 
more,  Ned,  remember  an  old  friend  as  he  will  remember  you 
to  the  last — kindly  ;  and  at  least  until  the  period  I  have  men- 
tioned has  expired,  keep  a  home  in  the  old  place  for  Walter. 
There  are  no  debts,  the  loan  from  Dombey's  house  is  paid  off, 
and  all  my  keys  I  send  with  this.  Keep  this  quiet,  and  make 
no  inquiry  for  me ;  it  is  useless.  So  no  more,  dear  Ned, 
from  your  true  friend,  Solomon  Gills."  The  Captain  took  a 
long  breath,  and  then  read  these  words,  written  below  :  "  '  The 
boy  Rob,  well  recommended,  as  I  told  you,  from  Dombey's 
house.  If  all  else  should  come  to  the  hammer,  take  care,  Ned, 
of  the  little  Midshipman." 

To  convey  to  posterity  any  idea  of  the  manner  in  which  the 
Captain,  after  turning  this  letter  over  and  over,  and  reading  it 
z.  score  of  times,  sat  down  in  his  chair,  and  held  a  court-mar- 
tial on  the  subject  in  his  own  mind,  would  require  the  united 
genius  of  all  the  great  men,  who,  discarding  their  own  untoward 
days,  have  determined  to  go  down  to  posterity,  and  have  never 
got  there.  At  first  the  Captain  was  too  much  confounded  and 
distressed  to  th.nk  of  anything  but  the  letter  itself  ;  and  even 
when  his  thoughts  began  to  glance  upon  the  various  attendant 
facts,  they  might,  perhaps,  as  well  have  occupied  themselves 
with  their  former  theme,  for  any  light  they  reflected  on  them. 
In  this  state  of  mind.  Captain  Cuttle  having  the  Grinder  be- 
fore the  court,  and  no  one  else,  found  it  a  great  relief  to  de- 
cide, generally,  that  he  was  an  object  of  suspicion ;  which  the 
Captain  so  clearly  expressed  in  his  visage,  that  Rob  remon- 
strated. 

"  Oh,  don't.  Captain  !  "  cried  the  Grinder.  "  I  w^onder  how 
you  can  !  what  have  I  done  to  be  looked  at,  like  that  ? " 

"  My  lad,"  said  Captain  Cuttle,  "  don't  you  sing  out  afore 
you're  hurt.  And  don't  you  commit  yourself,  whatever  you 
do." 

"  I  haven't  been  and  committed  nothing.  Captain  !  "  an- 
swered Rob. 

"  Keep  her  free,  then,"  said  the  Captain,  impressively, 
"  and  ride  easy." 

With  a  deep  sense  of  the  responsibility  imposed  upon  him, 
and  the  necessity  of  thoroughly  fathoming  this  mysterious 
affair,  as  became  a  man  in  his  relations  with  the  parties,  Capv 
tain  Cuttle  resolved  to  go  down  and  examine  the  premises,  and 
to  keep  the  Grinder  with  him.     Considering  that  youth  as  uih 


STRANGE  NEWS  OF  UNCLE  SOL.  343 

der  arrest  at  present,  the  Captain  was  in  some  doubt  whether 
it  might  not  be  expedient  to  handcuff  him,  or  tie  his  ankles  to- 
gether, or  attach  a  weight  to  his  legs ;  but  not  being  clear  as 
to  the  legality  of  such  formalities,  the  Captain  decided  merely 
to  hold  him  by  the  shoulder  all  the  way,  and  knock  him  down 
if  he  made  any  objection. 

However,  he  made  none,  and  consequently  got  to  the  In- 
strument-maker's house  without  being  placed  under  any  more 
stringent  restraint.  As  the  shutters  were  not  yet  taken  down, 
the  Captain's  first  care  was  to  have  the  shop  opened  ;  and 
when  the  daylight  was  freely  admitted,  he  proceeded,  with  its 
aid,  to  further  investigation. 

The  Captain's  first  care  was  to  establish  himself  in  a  chair 
in  the  shop,  as  President  of  the  solemn  tribunal  that  was  sit- 
ting within  him  ;  and  to  require  Rob  to  lie  down  in  his  bed  un- 
der the  counter,  show  exactly  where  he  discovered  the  keys 
and  packet  when  he  awoke,  how  he  found  the  door  when  he 
went  to  try  it,  how  he  started  off  to  Brig  Place — cautiously 
preventing  the  latter  imitation  from  being  carried  farther  than 
the  threshold — and  so  on  to  the  end  of  the  chapter.  When  all 
this  had  been  done  several  times,  the  Captain  shook  his  head 
and  seemed  to  think  the  matter  had  a  bad  look. 

Next,  the  Captain,  with  some  indistinct  idea  of  finding  a 
body,  instituted  a  strict  search  over  the  whole  house  :  groping 
in  the  cellars  with  a  lighted  candle,  thrusting  his  hook  behind 
doors,  bringing  his  head  into  violent  contact  with  beams,  and 
covering  himself  with  cobwebs.  Mounting  up  to  the  old  man's 
bed-room,  they  found  that  he  had  not  been  in  bed  on  the  pre- 
vious night,  but  had  merely  lain  down  on  the  coverlet,  as  was 
evident  from  the  impression  yet  remaining  there. 

"  And  /,  think,  Captain,"  said  Rob,  looking  round  the  room, 
"  that  when  Mr.  Gills  was  going  in  and  out  so  often,  these  last 
few  days,  he  was  taking  little  things  away,  piecemeal,  not  to 
attract  attention." 

"  Ay  !  "  said  the  Captain,  mysteriously.  "  Why  so,  my 
lad  ?  " 

"  Why,"  returned  Rob,  looking  about,  "  I  don't  see  his 
shaving  tackle,  nor  his  brushes.  Captain.  Nor  no  shirts.  Nor 
yet  his  shoes." 

As  each  of  these  articles  was  mentioned.  Captain  Cuttle 
took  particular  notice  of  the  corresponding  department  of  the 
Grinder,  lest  he  should  appear  to  have  been  in  recent  use,  or 
should  prove  to  be  in  present  possession  thereof.  But  Rob 
had  np  Qccasion  to  shave,  certainly  was  not  brushed,  and  wpre 


.j^^  DOME EY  AND  SON. 

the  clothes  he  had  worn  for  a  long  time  past,  beywd  all  possi 
bility  of  mistake. 

"And  what  should  you  say,"  said  the  Captain — "not^conv 
mitting  yourself-  -about  his  time  of  sheering  off  ?     Hey  ?  " 

"  Why,  I  think.  Captain,"  returned  Rob,  "  that  he  must 
have  gone  pretty  soon  after  I  began  to  snore." 

"  What  o'clock  was  that,"  said  the  Captain,  prepared  to  be 
very  particular  about  the  exact  time. 

"  How  can  I  tell.  Captain  !  "  answered  Rob.  "  I  only  know 
that  I  am  a  heavy  sleeper  at  first,  and  a  light  one  towards 
morning ;  and  if  Mr.  Gills  had  come  through  the  shop  near 
daybreak,  though  ever  so  much  on  tiptoe,  I'm  pretty  sure  I 
should  have  heard  him  shut  the  door  at  all  events." 

On  mature  consideration  of  this  evidence.  Captain  Cuttle 
began  to  think  that  the  Instrument-maker  must  have  vanished 
of  his  own  accord ;  to  which  logical  conclusion  he  was  assisted 
by  the  letter  addressed  to  himself,  which,  as  being  unquestion- 
ably in  the  old  man's  handwriting,  would  seem,  with  no  greal 
forcing,  to  bear  the  construction,  that  he  arranged  of  his  own 
will,  to  go,  and  so  went.  The  Captain  had  next  to  consider 
where  and  why ;  and  as  there  was  no  way  whatsoever  that  he 
saw  to  the  solution  of  the  first  difficulty,  he  confined  his  medi- 
tations to  the  second. 

Remembering  the  old  man's  curious  manner,  and  the  fare- 
well he  had  taken  of  him  ;  unaccountably  fervent  at  the  time, 
but  quite  intelligible  now  ;  a  terrible  apprehension  strengthened 
on  the  Captain,  that,  overpowered  by  his  anxieties  and  regrets 
for  Walter,  he  had  been  driven  to  commit  suicide.  Unequal 
to  ihe  wear  and  tear  of  daily  life,  as  he  had  often  professed 
himself  to  be,  and  shaken  as  he  no  doubt  was  by  the  uncer- 
tainty and  deferred  hope  he  had  undergone,  it  seemed  no  vio- 
lently strained  misgiving,  but  only  too  probable. 

Free  from  debt,  and  with  no  fear  for  his  personal  liberty,  or 
the  seizure  of  his  goods,  what  else  but  such  a  state  of  madness 
could  have  hurried  him  away  alone  and  secretly  ?  As  to  his 
carrying  some  apparel  with  him,  if  he  had  really  done  so — and 
they  were  not  even  sure  of  that — he  might  have  done  so,  the 
Captain  argued,  to  prevent  inquiry,  to  distract  attention  from 
his  probable  fate,  or  to  ease  the  very  mind  tliat  was  now  re- 
volving all  these  possibilities.  Such,  reduced  into  plain  lan- 
guage, and  condensed  within  a  small  compass,  was  the  final 
result  and  substance  of  Captain  Cuttle's  deliberations  :  which 
took  a  long  time  to  arrive  at  this  pass,  and  were,  like  some 
©ore  public  deUberalions,  very  discursive  and  disorderly. 


STRANGE  NEWS  OF  UNCLE  SOL.  345 

Dejected  and  despondent  in  the  extreme,  Captain  Cuttle 
felt  it  just  to  release  Rob  from  the  arrest  in  which  he  had 
placed  him,  and  to  enlarge  him,  subject  to  a  kind  of  honorable 
inspection  which  he  still  resolved  to  exercise  :  and  having 
hired  a  man,  from  Brogley  the  Broker,  to  sit  in  the  shop  during 
their  absence,  the  Captain,  taking  Rob  with  him,  issued  forth 
upon  a  dismal  quest  after  the  mortal  remains  of  Solomon  Gills. 

Not  a  station-house,  or  bone-house,  or  work-house  in  the 
metropolis  escaped  a  visitation  from  the  hard  glazed  hat. 
Along  the  wharfs,  among  the  shipping  on  the  bank-side,  up 
the  river,  down  the  river,  here,  there,  everywhere,  it  went  gleam- 
ing where  men  were  thickest,  like  the  hero's  helmet  in  an  epic 
battle.  For  a  whole  week  the  Captain  read  of  all  the  found 
and  missing  people  in  all  the  newspapers  and  handbills,  and 
went  forth  on  expeditions  at  all  hours  of  the  day  to  identify 
Solomon  Gills,  in  poor  little  ship-boys  who  had  fallen  over- 
board, and  in  tall  foreigners  with  dark  beards  who  had  taken 
poison — "to  make  sure,"  Captain  Cuttle  said,  "  that  it  warn't 
him."  It  is  a  sure  thing  that  it  never  was,  and  that  the 
good  Captain  had  no  other  satisfaction. 

Captain  Cuttle  at  last  abandoned  these  attempts  as  hopeless 
and  set  himself  to  consider  what  was  to  be  done  next.  After 
several  new  perusals  of  his  poor  friend's  letter,  he  considered 
that  the  maintenance  of  "  a  home  in  the  old  place  for  Walter  " 
was  the  primary  duty  imposed  upon  him.  Therefore,  the 
Captain's  decision  was,  that  he  would  keep  house  on  the 
premises  of  Solomon  Gills  himself,  and  would  go  into  the  in- 
strument-business, and  see  what  came  of  it. 

But  as  this  step  involved  the  relinquishment  of  his  apart- 
ments at  Mrs.  MacStinger's,  and  he  knew  that  resolute  woman 
would  never  hear  of  his  deserting  them,  the  Captain  took  the 
desperate  determination  of  running  away. 

"  Now,  look  ye  here,  my  lad,"  said  the  Captain  to  Rob, 
when  he  had  matured  this  notable  scheme,  "to-morrow,  I 
shan't  be  found  in  this  here  roadstead  till  night — not  till  arter 
midnight  p'rhaps.  But  you  keep  watch  till  you  hear  me  knock, 
and  the  moment  you  do,  turn-to,  and  open  the  door." 

"  Very  good.  Captain,"  said  Rob. 

"  You'll  continue  to  be  rated  on  these  here  books,"  pursued 
the  Captain  condescendingly,  "  and  I  don't  say  but  what  you 
may  get  promotion,  if  you  and  me  should  pull  together  with  a 
will.  But  the  moment  j-ou  hear  me  knock  to-morrow  night, 
whatever  time  it  is,  turn-to  and  show  yourself  smart  wuh  the 
door." 


^4$  JJOMBEy  AND  SOI^. 

"  ril  ^  sure  to  do  it,  Captain,"  replied  RoS. 

"Because  you  understand,"  resumed  the  Captain,  cominy 
back  again  to  enforce  this  charge  upon  his  mind,  "  there  may 
be,  for  anything  I  can  say,  a  chase  ;  and  I  might  be  took  while 
I  was  waiting,  if  you  didn't  show  yourself  smart  with  the  door." 

Rob  again  assured  the  Captain  that  he  would  be  prompt 
and  wakeful  ;  and  the  Captain  having  made  this  prudent  ar- 
rangement, went  home  to  Mrs.  MacStinger's  for  the  last  time. 

The  sense  the  Captain  had  of  its  being  the  last  time,  and 
of  the  awful  purpose  hidden  beneath  his  blue  waistcoat,  in- 
spired him  with  such  a  mortal  dread  of  Mrs.  MacStinger,  that 
the  sound  of  that  lady's  foot  down  stairs  at  any  time  of  the 
day,  was  sufficient  to  throw  him  into  a  fit  of  trembling.  It  fell 
out,  too,  that  Mrs.  MacStinger  was  in  a  charming  temper — 
mild  and  placid  as  a  house-lamb ;  and  Captain  Cuttle's  con- 
science suffered  terrible  twinges,  when  she  came  up  to  inquire 
if  she  could  cook  him  nothing  for  his  dinner. 

"  A  nice  small  kidney-pudding  now,  Cap'en  Cuttle,"  said 
his  landlady  :  "  or  a  sheep's  heart.     Don't  mind  my  trouble." 

"  No  thank'ee.  Ma'am,"  returned  the  Captain. 

"  Have  a  roast  fowl,"  said  Mrs.  MacStinger,  "with  a  bit  o! 
weal  stuffing  and  some  egg  sauce.  Come,  Cap'en  Cuttle ! 
Give  yourself  a  little  treat!  " 

"No  thank'ee,  Ma'am,"  returned  the  Captain  very  humbly. 

"  I'm  sure  you're  out  of  sorts,  and  want  to  be  stimulated," 
said  Mrs.  MacStinger.  "  Why  not  have,  for  once  in  a  way,  a 
bottle  of  sherry  wine  ?  " 

"  Well,  Ma'am,"  rejoined  the  Captain,  "if  you'd  be  so  good 
as  take  a  glass  or  two,  I  think  I  would  try  that.  Would  you 
do  me  the  favor.  Ma'am,"  said  the  Captain,  torn  to  pieces  by 
his  conscience,  "  to  accept  a  quarter's  rent  a-head .?  " 

"And  why  so,  Cap'en  Cuttle.-'  "  retorted  Mrs.  MacStinger 
— sharply,  as  the  Captain  thought. 

The  Captain  was  frightened  to  death.  "  If  you  would, 
Ma'am,"  he  said  with  submission,  "it  would  oblige  me.  I 
can't  keep  my  money  very  well.  It  pays  itself  out.  I  should 
take  it  kind  if  you'd  comply." 

"  Well,  Cap'en  Cuttle,"  said  the  unconscious  MacStinger, 
rubbing  her  hands,  "  you  can  do  as  you  please.  It's  not  for 
me,  with  my  family,  to  refuse,  no  more  than  it  is  to  ask." 

"And  would  you,  Ma'am,"  said  the  Captain,  taking  down 
the  tin  canister  in  which  he  kept  his  cash,  from  the  top  shelf 
of  the  cupboard,  "  be  so  good  as  offer  eighteen-pence  apiece 
to  the  little  family  all  round  .'     If  you  could  make  it  convenient, 


.rPRAiVGE  AmWS  OF  UNCLE  SOL. 


34? 


Ma'am,  to  pass  the  word  presently  for  them  children  to  come 
for'ard,  in  a  body,  I  should  be  glad  to  see  'em." 

These  innocent  MacStingers  were  so  many  daggers  to  the 
Captain' s  breast,  when  they  appeared  in  a  swarm,  and  tore  at 
him  with  the  confiding  trustfulness  he  so  little  deserved.  The 
eye  of  Alexander  MacStinger,  who  had  been  his  favorite,  was 
insupportable  to  the  Captain  ;  the  voice  of  Juliana  MacStinger,i, 
who  was  the  picture  of  her  mother,  niade  a  coward  of  him. 

Captain  Cuttle  kept  up  appearances,  nevertheless,  tolerably 
well,  and  for  an  hour  or  two  was  very  hardly  used  and  roughly 
handled  by  the  young  MacStingers  :  who  in  their  childish 
frolics,  did  a  little  damage  also  to  the  glazed  hat,  by  sitting  in 
it,  two  at  a  time,  as  in  a  nest,  and  drumming  on  the  inside  of 
the  crown  with  their  shoes.  At  length  the  Captain  sorrowfully 
dismissed  them  :  taking  leave  of  these  cherubs  with  the  poig- 
nant remorse  and  grief  of  a  man  who  was  going  to  execution. 

In  the  silence  of  night,  the  Captain  packed  up  his  heavier 
property  in  a  chest,  which  he  locked,  intending  to  leave  it 
there,  in  all  probability  for  ever,  but  on  the  forlorn  chance  of 
one  day  finding  a  man  sufBciently  bold  and  desperate  to  come 
and  ask  for  it.  Of  his  lighter  necessaries,  the  Captain  made  a 
bundle  ;  and  disposed  his  plate  about  his  person,  ready  for 
flight.  At  the  hour  of  midnight,  when  Brig  Place  was  buried 
in  slumber,  and  Mrs.  MacStinger  was  lulled  in  sweet  oblivion, 
with  her  infants  around  her,  the  guilty  Captain,  stealing  down 
on  tiptoe,  in  the  dark,  opened  the  door,  closed  it  softly  after 
him,  and  took  to  his  heels. 

Pursued  by  the  image  of  Mrs.  MacStinger  springing  out  of 
bed,  and,  regardless  of  costume,  following  and  bringing  him 
back  ;  pursued  also  by  a  consciousness  of  his  enormous  crime  ; 
Captain  Cuttle  held  on  at  a  great  pace,  and  allowed  no  grass 
to  grow  under  his  feet,  between  Brig  Place  and  the  Instrument- 
maker's  door.  It  opened  when  he  knocked — for  Rob  was  on 
the  watch — and  when  it  was  bolted  and  locked  behind  him, 
Captain  Cuttle  felt  comparatively  safe. 

"  Whew ! "  cried  the  Captain,  looking  round  him,  "  it's  a 
breather !  " 

"  Nothing  the  matter,  is  there,  Captain  ?  "  cried  the  gaping 
Rob. 

"  No,  no  !  "  said  Captain  Cuttle,  after  changing  color  and 
listening  to  a  passing  footstep  in  the  street.  "  But  mind  ye, 
my  lad ;  if  any  lady,  except  either  of  them  two  as  you  see 
t'other  day,  ever  comes  and  asks  for  Cap'en  Cuttle,  be  sure  to 


34S  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

■report  no  person  of  that  name  known,  nor  never  heard  of  here, 
observe  them  orders,  will  you  ?  " 

"  I'll  take  care,  Captain,"  returned  Rob. 

"  You  might  say — if  you  liked,"  hesitated  the  Captain, 
"  that  you'd  read  in  the  paper  that  a  Cap'en  of  that  name  was 
gone  to  Australia,  emigrating,  along  with  a  whole  ship's  com- 
plement of  people  as  had  all  swore  never  to  come  back  no 
more." 

Rob  nodded  his  understanding  of  these  instructions  ;  and 
Captain  Cuttle  promising  to  make  a  man  of  him,  if  he  obeyed 
orders,  dismissed  him,  yawning,  to  liis  bed  under  the  counter, 
and  went  aloft  to  the  chamber  of  Solomon  Gills. 

What  the  Captain  suffered  next  day,  whenever  a  bonnet 
passed,  or  how  often  he  darted  out  of  the  shop  to  elude  imag- 
inary MacStingers,  and  sought  safety  in  the  attic,  cannot  be 
told.  But  to  avoid  the  fatigues  attendant  on  this  means  of 
self-preservation,  the  Captain  curtained  the  glass  door  of  com- 
munication between  the  shop  and  parlor,  on  the  inside,  fitted  a 
key  to  it  from  the  bunch  that  had  been  sent  to  him :  and  cut 
a  small  hole  of  espial  in  the  wall.  The  advantage  of  this  for- 
tification is  obvious.  On  a  bonnet  appearing,  the  Captain 
instantly  slipped  into  his  garrison,  locked  himself  up,  and  took 
a  secret  observation  of  the  enemy.  Finding  it  a  false  alarm, 
the  Captain  instantly  slipped  out  again.  And  the  bonnets  in 
the  street  were  so  very  numerous,  and  alarms  were  so  insep- 
arable from  their  appearance,  that  the  Captain  was  almost 
incessantly  slipping  in  and  out  all  day  long. 

Captain  Cuttle  found  time,  however,  in  the  midst  of  this 
fatiguing  service  to  inspect  the  stock  ;  in  connection  with  which 
he  had  the  general  idea  (very  laborious  to  Rob)  that  too  much 
friction  could  not  be  bestowed  upon  it,  and  that  it  could  not  be 
made  too  bright.  He  also  ticketed  a  few  attractive  looking 
articles  at  a  venture,  at  prices  ranging  from  ten  shillings  to 
fifty  pounds,  and  exposetl  them  in  the  window  to  the  great 
astonishment  of  the  public. 

After  effecting  these  improvements.  Captain  Cuttle,  sur- 
rounded by  the  instruments,  began  to  feel  scientific  :  and 
looked  up  at  the  stars  at  night,  through  the  skylight,  when  he 
was  smoking  his  pipe  in  the  little  back  parlor  before  going  to 
bed,  as  if  he  had  established  a  kind  of  properly  in  them.  As 
a  tradesman  in  the  C'ity,  too,  he  began  to  have  an  interest  in 
the  Lord  Mayor,  and  the  Sheriffs,  and  in  Public  Companies; 
and  felt  bound  to  read  the  quotations  of  the  Funds  every  day, 
though  he  was  unable  to  make  out,  on  any  principle  of  iiaviga' 


SHADOWS  OF  THE  FAST  AA'D  FUTURE. 


349 


tion,  what  the  figures  meant,  and  could  have  very  well  dis- 
pensed with  the  fractions.  Florence,  the  Captain  waited  on, 
with  his  strange  news  of  Uncle  Sol,  immediately  after  taking 
possession  of  the  Midshipman  ;  but  she  was  away  from  home. 
So  the  Captain  set  himself  down  in  his  altered  station  of  life, 
with  no  company  but  Rob  the  Grinder ;  and  losing  count  of 
time,  as  men  do  when  great  changes  come  upon  them,  thought 
musingly  of  Walter,  and  of  Solomon  Gills,  and  even  of  Mrs. 
MacStinger  herself,  as  among  the  things  that  had  been. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

SHADOWS  OF  THE  PAST  AND  FUTURE. 

"Your  most  obedient,  Sir,"  said  the  Major.  "Damme, 
Sir,  a  friend  of  my  friend  Dombey's  is  a  friend  of  mine,  and 
I'm  glad  to  see  you  ! " 

"  I  am  infinitely  obliged,  Carker,"  explained  Mr,  Dombey, 
"  to  Major  Bagstock,  for  his  company  and  conversation.  Major 
Bagstock  has  rendered  me  great  service,  Carker." 

Mr.  Carker  the  Manager,  hat  in  hand,  just  arrived  at  Leam- 
ington, and  just  introduced  to  the  Major,  showed  the  Major 
his  whole  double  range  of  teeth,  and  trusted  he  might  take  the 
liberty  of  thanking  him  with  all  his  heart  for  having  effected  so 
great  an  improvement  in  Mr.  Dombey's  looks  and  spirits. 

"  By  Gad,  Sir,"  said  the  Major,  in  reply,  "  there  are  no  thanks 
due  to  me,  for  it's  a  give  and  take  affair.  A  great  creature 
like  our  friend  Dombey,  Sir,"  said  the  Major,  lowering  his 
voice,  but  not  lowering  it  so  much  as  to  render  it  inaudible  to 
that  gentleman,  "cannot  help  improving  and  exalting  his 
friends.  He  strengthens  and  invigorates  a  man,  Sir,  does 
Dombey,  in  his  moral  nature." 

Mr.  Carker  snapped  at  the  expression.  In  his  moral 
nature.  Exactly.  The  very  words  he  had  been  on  the  point 
of  suggesting. 

"But  when  my  friend  Dombey,  Sir,"  added  the  Major, 
"  talks  to  you  of  Major  Bagstock,  I  must  crave  leave  to  set 
him  and  you  right.  He  means  plain  Joe,  Sir — Joey  B. — Josh. 
Bagstock — Joseph — rough  and  tough  Old  J.,  Sir.  At  yom 
gervice." 


350 


DOMBEY  AA'D  SO.V. 


Mr.  Carker's  excessively  friendly  inclinations  towards  the 
Major,  and  Mr.  Carker's  admiration  of  his  roughness,  tough 
ness,  and  plainness,  gleamed  out  of  every  tooth  in  Mr.  Carker's 
head. 

"And  now.  Sir,"  said  the  Major,  "you  and  Dombey  have 
the  devil's  own  amount  of  business  to  talk  over." 

"  By  no  means.  Major,"  observed  Mr.  Dombey. 

"Dombey,"  said  the  Major,  defiantl)^  "I  know  better;  a 
man  of  your  mark — the  Colossus  of  commerce — is  not  to  be 
interrupted.  Your  moments  are  precious.  We  shall  meet  at 
dinner-time.  In  the  interval,  old  Joseph  will  be  scarce.  The 
dinner  hour  is  a  sharp  seven,  Mr.  Carker." 

With  that,  the  Major,  greatly  swollen  as  to  his  face,  with- 
drew ;  but  immediately  putting  in  his  head  at  the  door  again, 
said  : 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  Dombey,  have  you  any  message  to 
*em  ?  " 

Mr.  Dombey  in  some  embarrassment,  and  not  without  a 
glance  at  the  courteous  keeper  of  his  business  confidence, 
intrusted  the  Major  with  his  compliments. 

"  By  the  Lord,  Sir,"  said  the  Major,  "  you  must  make  it 
something  warmer  than  that,  or  Old  Joe  will  be  far  from  wel 
come." 

"  Regards  then,  if  you  will,  Major,"  returned  Mr.  Dombey 

"  Damme,  Sir,"  said  the  Major,  shaking  his  shoulders  and 
his  great  cheeks  jocularly  :  "  make  it  something  warmer  than 
that." 

"  What  you  please,  then,  Major,"  observed  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  Our  friend  is  sly  Sir,  sly  Sir,  de-vilish  sly,"  said  the 
Major,  staring  round  the  door  at  Carker.  "  So  is  Bagstock." 
But  stopping  in  the  midst  of  a  chuckle,  and  drawing  himself  up 
to  his  full  height,  the  Major  solemnly  exclaimed,  as  he  struck 
himself  on  the  chest,  "Dombey!  I  envy  your  feelings.  God 
bless  you  !  "  and  withdrew. 

"  You  must  have  found  the  gentleman  a  great  resource,'* 
said  Carker,  following  him  with  his  teeth. 

"  Very  great  indeed,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  He  has  friends  here,  no  doubt,"  pursued  Carker.  "  I 
perceive,  from  what  he  has  said,  that  you  go  into  society  here. 
Do  you  know,"  smiling  horribly,  "  I  am  so  very  glad  that  you 
go  into  society  ;  " 

Mr.  Dombey  acknowledged  this  display  of  interest  on  th* 
part  of  his  second  in  command,  by  twirling  his  watch-chain 
and  slightly  moving  his  head. 


SHADOWS  OF  THE  PAST  AND  FUTURE.  351 

"  You  were  formed  for  society,"  said  Carker.  "  Of  all  the 
men  I  know,  you  are  the  best  adapted,  by  nature  and  by  posi- 
tion, for  society.  Do  you  know  I  have  been  frequently  amazed 
that  you  should  have  held  it  at  arm's  length  so  long !  " 

"  I  have  had  my  reasons,  Carker.  I  have  been  alone,  and 
indifferent  to  it.  But  you  have  great  social  qualifications  your- 
self, and  are  the  more  likely  to  have  been  surprised."^ 

"  Oh  !  // "  returned  the  other,  with  ready  self-disparage- 
ment. "It's  quite  another  matter  in  the  case  of  a  man  like 
me.     I  don't  come  into  comparison  with  you." 

Mr.  Dombeyput  his  hand  to  his  neckcloth,  settled  bis  chin 
in  it,  coughed,  and  stood  looking  at  his  faithful  friend  and 
servant  for  a  few  moments  in  silence. 

"  I  shall  have  the  pleasure,  Carker,"  said  Mr.  Dombey  at 
length  :  making  as  if  he  swallowed  something  a  little  too  large 
for  his  throat :  "  to  present  you  to  my — to  the  Major's  friends. 
Highly  agreeable  people." 

"  Ladies  among  them,  I  presume  ?  "  insinuated  the  smooth 
Manager. 

•'  They  are  all — that  is  to  say,  they  are  both — ladies,"  re- 
plied Mr.  Dombey. 

"  Only  two  !  "  smiled  Carker. 

"  They  are  only  two.  I  have  confined  my  visits  to  their 
residence,  and  have  made  no  other  acquaintance  here." 

"  Sisters,  perhaps  ?  "  quoth  Carker. 

"  Mother  and  daughter,"  replied  Mr.  Dombey. 

As  Mr.  Dombey  dropped  his  eyes,  and  adjusted  his  neck- 
cloth again,  the  smiling  face  of  Mr.  Carker  the  Manager,  be- 
came in  a  moment,  and  without  any  stage  of  transition,  trans- 
formed into  a  most  intent  and  frowning  face,  scanning  his 
closely,  and  with  an  ugly  sneer.  As  Mr.  Dombey  raised  his 
eyes,  it  changed  back,  no  less  quickly,  to  its  old  expression, 
and  showed  him  every  gum  of  which  it  stood  possessed. 

"You  are  very  kind/'  said  Carker,  "  I  shall  be  delighted  to 
know  them.  Speaking  of  daughters,  I  have  seen  Miss  Dom- 
bey." 

There  was  a  sudden  rush  of  blood  to  Mr.  Dombey's  face. 

"  I  took  the  liberty  of  waiting  on  her,"  said  Carker,  "  to 
inquire  if  she  could  charge  me  with  any  little  commission.  I 
am  not  so  fortunate  as  to  be  the  bearer  of  any  but  her — but 
her  dear  love." 

Wolfs  face  that  it  was  then,  with  even  the  hot  tongue  re- 
vealing itself  through  the  stretched  mouth,  as  the  eyes  encoun- 
tered Mr.  Dombey's  J 


«^2  DOME EY  AND  SON. 

"  Wliat  business  intelligence  is  there  ?  '•  inquired  the  latfer 
gentleman,  after  a  silence,  during  which  Mr.  Carker  had  pro- 
duced some  memoranda  and  other  papers. 

"  There  is  very  little,"  returned  Carker.  "  Upon  the  whole 
we  have  not  had  our  usual  good  fortune  of  late,  but  that  is  of 
little  moment  to  you.  At  Lloyd's  they  give  up  the  Son  and 
Heir  for  lost.  Well,  she  was  insured  from  her  keel  to  her  mast- 
head." 

"  Carker,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  taking  a  chair  near  him,  "I 
cannot  say  that  young  man.  Gay,  ever  impressed  me  favorably — " 

"  Nor  me,"  interposed  the  Manager. 

"  But  I  wish,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  without  heeding  the  inter- 
ruption, he  had  never  gone  on  board  that  ship.  I  wish  he  had 
never  been  sent  out." 

"  It  is  a  pity  you  didn't  say  so  in  good  time,  is  it  not  ? "  re- 
torted Carker,  coolly.  "  However,  I  think  it's  all  for  the  best. 
I  really  think  it's  all  for  the  best.  Did  I  mention  that  there 
was  something  like  a  little  confidence  between  Miss  Dombey 
and  myself? " 

"  No,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  sternly. 

"  I  have  no  doubt,"  returned  Mr.  Carker,  after  an  impres- 
sive pause,  "  that  wherever  Gay  is,  he  is  much  better  where  he 
is,  than  at  home  here.  If  I  were,  or  could  be,  in  your  place,  1 
should  be  satisfied  of  that.  I  am  quite  satisfied  of  it  myself. 
Miss  Dombey  is  confiding  and  young — perhaps  hardly  proud 
enough,  for  your  daughter — if  she  have  a  fault.  Not  that  that 
is  much  though,  I  am  sure.  Will  you  check  these  balances 
with  me  ?  " 

Mr.  Dombey  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  instead  of  bending 
over  the  papers  that  were  laid  before  him,  and  looked  the  Man- 
ager steadily  in  the  face.  The  Manager,  with  his  eyelids 
slightly  raised,  affected  to  be  glancing  at  his  figures,  and  to 
await  the  leisure  of  his  principal.  He  showed  that  he  affected 
this,  as  if  from  great  delicacy,  and  with  a  design  to  spare  Mr. 
Dombey's  feelings  ;  and  the  latter,  as  he  looked  at  him,  was 
cognizant  of  his  intended  consideration,  and  felt  that  but  for  it, 
this  confidential  Carker  would  have  said  a  great  deal  more, 
which  he,  Mr.  Dombey,  was  too  proud  to  ask  for.  It  was  his 
way  in  business,  often.  Little  by  little  Mr.  Dombey's  gaze 
relaxed,  and  his  attention  became  diverted  to  the  papers  before 
him;  but  while  busy  with  the  occupation  they  afforded  him,  he 
frequently  stopped,  and  looked  at  Mr.  Carker  again.  When- 
ever he  did  so,  Mr.  Carker  was  demonstrative,  as  before,  in  his 
^?licficy,  and  impressed  it  on  his  great  chief  more  and  more. 


SHADOWS  OF  7'HE  PAST  AND  FUTURE. 


353 


While  they  were  thus  engaged  ;  and  under  the  skilful  cul- 
ture of  the  Manager,  angry  thoughts  in  reference  to  poor  Flor- 
ence brooded  and  bred  in  Mr.  Dombey's  breast,  usurping  the 
place  of  the  cold  dislike  that  generally  reigned  there  ;  Major 
Bagstock,  much  admired  by  the  old  ladies  of  Leamington,  and 
followed  by  the  Native,  carrying  the  usual  amount  of  light  bag- 
gage, straddled  along  the  shady  side  of  the  way,  to  make  a 
morning  call  on  Mrs  Skewton.  It  being  mid-day  when  the 
Major  reached  the  bower  of  Cleopatra,  he  had  the  good  fortune 
to  find  his  Princess  on  her  usual  sofa,  languishing  over  a  cup  of 
coffee,  with  the  room  so  darkened  and  shaded  for  her  more 
luxurious  repose,  that  Withers,- who  was  in  attendance  on  her, 
loomed  like  a  phantom  page. 

"  What  insupportable  creature  is  this,  coming  in  !  "  said 
Mrs.  Skewton.  "  I  cannot  bear  it.  Go  away,  whoever  you 
are ! " 

"  You  have  not  the  heart  to  banish  J.  B.,  Ma'am  ! "  said  the 
Major,  halting  midway,  to  remonstrate,  with  his  cane  over  his 
shoulder, 

"  Oh  it's  you,  is  it  ?  On  second  thoughts,  you  may  enter," 
observed  Cleopatra. 

The  Major  entered  accordingly,  and  advancing  to  the  sofa 
pressed  her  charming  hand  to  his  lips. 

"Sit  down,"  said  Cleopatra,  listlessly  waving  her  fan,  "a 
long  way  off.  Don't  come  too  near  me,  for  I  am  frightfully 
faint  and  sensitive  this  morning,  and  you  smell  of  the  Sun. 
You  are  absolutely  tropical." 

"  By  George,  Ma'am,"  said  the  Major,  "the  time  has  been 
when  Joseph  Bagstock  has  been  grilled  and  blistered  by  the 
Sun  ;  the  time  was  when  he  was  forced,  Ma'am,  into  such 
full  blow,  by  high  hothouse  heat  in  the  West  Indies,  that  he 
was  known  as  the  Flower.  A  man  never  heard  of  Bagstock, 
Ma'am,  in  those  days  ;  he  heard  of  the  Flower — the  Flower  of 
Ours.  The  Flower  may  have  faded,  more  or  less,  Ma'am," 
observed  the  Major,  dropping  into  a  much  nearer  chair  than 
had  been  indicated  by  his  cruel  Divinity,  "but  it  is  a  tough 
plant  yet,  and  constant  as  the  evergreen." 

Here  the  Major,  under  cover  of  the  dark  room,  shut  up  one 
eye,  rolled  his  head  like  a  Harlequin,  and,  in  his  great  self- 
satisfaction,  perhaps  went  nearer  to  the  confines  of  apoplexy 
than  he  had  ever  gone  before. 

"  Where  is  Mrs.  Granger  ? '  inquired  Cleopatra  of  her 
page. 

Withers  believed  she  was  in  her  own  room. 


354 


DOMBEY  A  AW  SOA'. 


"Very  well,'*  said  Mrs.  Skewton.  "Go  away  and  shut  the 
door.     I  am  engaged." 

As  Withers  disappeared,  Mrs.  Skewton  turned  her  head 
languidly  towards  the  Major,  without  otherwise  moving,  and 
asked  him  how  his  friend  was. 

"  Dombey,  Ma'am,"  returned  the  Major,  with  a  facetious 
gurgling  in  his  throat,  "  is  as  well  as  a  man  in  his  condition  can 
be.  His  condition  is  a  desperate  one,  Ma'am.  He  is  touched, 
is  Dombey  !  touched  !  "  cried  the  Major  !  "  He  is  bayoneted 
through  the  body." 

Cleopatra  cast  a  sharp  look  at  the  Major,  that  contrasted 
forcibly  with  the  affected  drawl  in  which  she  presently  said  : — 
"  Major  Bagstock,  although  I  know  but  little  of  the  world, 
— nor  can  I  really  regret  my  inexperience,  for  I  fear  it  is  a  false 
place,  full  of  withering  conventionalities :  where  Nature  is  but 
little  regarded,  and  where  the  music  of  the  heart,  and  the  gush- 
ing of  the  soul,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  which  is  so  truly 
poetical,  is  seldom  heard, — I  cannot  misunderstand  your  mean- 
ing. There  is  an  allusion  to  Edith — to  my  extremely  dear 
child,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  tracing  the  outline  of  her  eyebrows 
with  her  forefinger,  "  in  your  words,  to  which  the  tenderest  of 
chords  vibrates  excessively  !  " 

"Bluntness,  Ma'am,"  returned  the  Major,  "has  ever  been 
the  characteristic  of  the  Bagstock  breed.  Vou  are  right.  Joe 
admits  it." 

"  And  that  allusion,"  pursued  Cleopatra,  "  would  involve 
one  of  the  most — if  not  positively  i/ie  most — touching,  and 
thrilling,  and  sacred  emotions  of  which  our  sadly-fallen  nature 
is  susceptible,  I  conceive." 

The  Major  laid  his  hand  upon  his  lips,  and  wafted  a  kiss  to 
Cleopatra,  as  if  to  identify  the  emotion  in  question. 

"  I  feel  that  I  am  weak.  I  feel  that  I  am  wanting  in  that 
energy,  which  should  sustain  a  mama  ;  not  to  say  a  parent :  on 
such  a  subject,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  trimming  her  lips  with  the 
laced  edge  of  her  pocket-handkerchief ;  "  but  I  can  hardly  ap- 
proach a  topic  so  excessively  momentous  to  my  dearest  Edith 
without  a  feeling  of  faintness.  Nevertheless,  bad  man,  as  you 
have  boldly  remarked  upon  it,  and  as  it  has  occasioned  me 
great  anguish  :  "  Mrs.  Skewton  touched  her  left  side  with  her 
fan  :  "  I  will  not  shrink  from  my  duty." 

The  Major,  under  cover  of  the  dimness,  swelled,  and 
swelled,  and  rolled  his  purple  face  about,  and  winked  his  lob- 
ster eye,  until  he  fell  into  a  fit  of  wheezing,  wliich  obliged  him  to 
rise  and  take  a  turn  or  two  about  the  room,  before  his  fair 
friend  could  proceed. 


SHADOIVS  OF  THE  PAST  AND  FUTURE.  35^ 

*'  Mr.  Dombey,"  said  Mrs.  Skevvton,  when  she  at  length 
resumed,  "  was  obliging  enough,  now  many  weeks  ago,  to  do  us 
the  honor  of  visiting  us  here  ;  in  company,  my  dear  Major,  with 
yourself.  I  acknowledge — let  me  be  open — that  it  is  my  fail- 
ing to  be  the  creature  of  impulse,  and  to  wear  my  heart,  as  it 
were,  outside.  I  know  my  failing  full  well.  My  enemy  cannot 
know  it  better.  But  I  am  not  penitent ;  I  would  rather  not  be 
frozen  by  the  heartless  world,  and  am  content  to  bear  this  im 
putation  justly." 

Mrs.  Skewton  arranged  her  tucker,  pinched  her  wiry  throat 
to  give  it  a  soft  surface,  and  went  on,  with  great  complacency. 

"  It  gave  me  (my  dearest  Edith  too,  I  am  sure)  infinite 
pleasure  to  receive  Mr.  Dombey.  As  a  friend  of  yours,  my 
dear  Major,  we  were  naturally  disposed  to  be  prepossessed  in 
his  favor ;  and  I  fancied  that  I  observed  an  amount  of  Heart 
in  Mr.  Dombey,  that  was  excessively  refreshing." 

"There  is  devilish  little  heart  in  Dombey  now,  Ma'am," 
said  the  Major. 

"Wretched  man  !"  cried  Mrs.  Skewton,  looking  at  him  lan- 
guidly, "  pray  be  silent." 

"J.  B.  is  dumb,  Ma'am,"  said  the  Major. 

"  Mr.  Dombey,"  pursued  Cleopatra,  smoothing  the  rosy  hue 
upon  her  cheeks,  "  accordingly  repeated  his  visit  ;  and  possibly 
finding  some  attraction  in  the  simplicity  and  primitiveness  of 
our  tastes — for  there  is  always  a  charm  in  nature — it  is  so  very 
sweet — became  one  of  our  little  circle  every  evening.  Little 
did  I  think  of  the  awful  responsibility  into  which  I  plunged 
when  I  encouraged  Mr.  Dombey — to — " 

"  To  beat  up  these  quarters,  Ma'am,"  suggested  Major 
Bagstock. 

"  Coarse  person  !  "  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  "  you  anticipate  my 
meaning,  though  in  odious  language." 

Here  Mrs.  Skewton  rested  her  elbow  on  the  little  table  at 
her  side,  and  suffering  her  wrist  to  droop  in  what  she  considered 
a  graceful  and  becoming  manner,  dangled  her  fan  to  and  fro, 
and  lazily  admired  her  hand  while  speaking. 

"The  agony  I  have  endured,"  she  said  mincingly,  "as  the 
truth  has  by  degrees  dawned  upon  me,  has  been  too  exceed- 
ingly terrific  to  dilate  upon.  My  whole  existence  is  bound  up 
in  my  sweetest  Edith  ;  and  to  see  her  change  from  day  to  day 
— my  beautiful  pet,  who  has  positively  garnered  up  her  heart 
since  the  death  of  that  most  delightful  creature,  Granger— is 
the  most  affecting  thing  in  the  world." 

Mrs.  Skewton's  world  was  not  3  very  trying  one.  if  one 


356  DOMBE  y  A  ND  SOK . 

might  judge  of  it  by  the  influence  of  its  most  affecting  circum- 
stance upon  her  ;  but  this  by  the  way. 

"  Edith,"  simpered  Mrs.  Skevvton,  "  who  is  the  perfect  pearl 
of  my  life,  is  said  to  resemble  me.     I  believe  we  are  alike." 

"  There  is  one  man  in  the  world  who  never  will  admit  that 
any  one  resembles  you,  Ma'am,"  said  the  Major ;  "  and  that 
man's  name  is  Old  Joe  Bagstock." 

Cleopatra  made  as  if  she  would  brain  the  flatterer  with  hei 
fan,  but  relenting,  smiled  upon  him  and  proceeded  : 

"  If  my  charming  girl  inherits  any  advantages  from  me, 
wicked  one  !  "  the  Major  was  the  wicked  one  :  "  she  inherits 
also  my  foolish  nature.  She  has  great  force  of  character — 
mine  has  been  said  to  be  immense,  though  I  don't  believe  it — • 
but  once  moved,  she  is  susceptible  and  sensitive  to  the  last 
extent.  What  are  my  feelings  when  I  see  her  pining  1  They 
destroy  me." 

The  Major  advancing  his  double  chin,  and  pursing  up  his 
blue  lips  into  a  soothing  expression,  affected  the  profoundest 
sympathy, 

"  The  confidence,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  "  that  has  subsisted 
between  us — the  free  development  of  soul,  and  openness  of 
sentiment — is  touching  to  think  of.  We  have  been  more  like 
sisters  than  mama  and  child." 

"J.  B.'s  own  sentiment,"  observed  the  Major,  "expressed 
by  J.  B,  fifty  thousand  times !  " 

"Do  not  interrupt,  rude  man!"  said  Cleopatra.  "What 
are  my  feelings,  then,  when  I  find  that  there  is  one  subject 
avoided  by  us !  That  there  is  a  what's-his-name — a  gulf- 
opened  between  us.  That  my  own  artless  Edith  is  changed  to 
me  !     They  are  of  the  most  poignant  description,  of  course." 

The  Major  left  his  chair,  and  took  one  nearer  to  the  little 
table. 

"  From  day  to  day  I  see  this,  my  dear  Major,"  proceeded 
Mrs.  Skewton.  "  From  day  to  day  I  feel  this.  From  hour  to 
hour  I  reproach  myself  for  that  excess  of  faith  and  trustfulness 
which  has  led  to  such  distressing  consequences  ;  and  almost 
from  minute  to  minute,  I  hope  that  Mr.  Dombey  may  explain 
himself,  and  relieve  the  torture  I  undergo,  which  is  extremely 
wearing.  But  nothing  happens,  my  dear  Major;  I  am  the 
slave  of  remorse — take  care  of  the  coffee  cup  :  you  are  so  very 
awkward — my  darling  Edith  is  an  altered  being;  and  I  really 
don't  see  what  is  to  be  done,  or  what  good  creature  I  can  advise 
with." 

Major  Bagstock,  encouraged  perhaps  by  the  softened  and 


SHADOWS  OF  THE  PAST  AND  FUTURE.  3^^ 

Confickntial  tone  into  which  Mrs.  Skewton,  after  several  times 
lasping  into  it  for  a  moment,  seemed  now  to  have  subsickd  for 
good,  stretched  out  his  hand  across  the  little  table,  and  said 
with  a  leer, 

"  Advise  with  Joe,  Ma'am." 

*'  Then,  you  aggravating  monster,"  said  Cleopatra,  giving 
one  hand  to  the  Major,  and  tapping  his  knuckles  wilh  li^r  fan, 
which  she  held  in  the  other:  "why  don't  you  talk  to  me  ?  you 
know  what  I  mean.  Why  don't  you  tell  me  something  to  the 
purpose  ? " 

The  Major  laughed,  and  kissed  the  hand  she  had  bestowed 
upon  him,  and  laughed  again,  immensely. 

"  Is  there  as  much  Heart  in  Mr.  Dombey  as  I  gave  him 
credit  for  ?  "  languished  Cleopatra  tenderly.  "  Do  you  think 
he  is  in  earnest,  my  dear  Major  ?  Would  you  recommend  his 
being  spoken  to,  or  his  being  left  alone  ?  Now  tell  me,  like  a 
dear  man,  what  you  would  advise." 

"  Shall  we  marry  him  to  Edith  Granger,  Ma'am  ?  "  chuckled 
the  Major,  hoarsely. 

"  Mysterious  creature  ?  "  returned  Cleopatra,  bringing  her 
fan  to  bear  upon  the  Major's  nose.  "  How  can  we  marrj 
him  ?" 

"  Shall  we  marry  him  to  Edith  Granger,  Ma'am,  I  say  ? " 
chuckled  the  Major  again. 

Mrs.  Skewton  returned  no  answer  in  words,  but  smiled  upon 
the  Major  with  so  much  archness  and  vivacity,  that  that  gal- 
lant officer  considering  himself  challenged,  would  have  im- 
printed a  kiss  on  her  exceedingly  red  lips,  but  for  her  interpos- 
ing the  fan  with  a  very  winning  and  juvenile  dexterity.  It 
might  have  been  in  modesty  ;  it  might  have  been  in  apprehen- 
sion of  some  danger  to  their  bloom. 

"  Dombey,  Ma'am,"  said  the  Major,  "is  a  great  catch." 

"  Oh,  mercenary  wretch ! "  cried  Cleopatra,  with  a  little 
shriek,  "  I  am  shocked." 

"  And  Dombey,  Ma'am,"  pursued  the  Major,  thrusting  for- 
ward his  head,  and  distending  his  e)'es,  "is  in  earnest.  Joseph 
says  it ;  Bagstock  knows  it ;  J.  B.  keeps  him  to  the  mark. 
Leave  Dombey  to  himself.  Ma'am.  Dombey  is  safe.  Ma'am. 
Do  as  you  have  done  ;  do  no  more ;  and  trust  to  J.  B,  for  the 
end." 

"  You  really  think  so,  my  dear  Major  ?  "  returned  Cleopa- 
tra, who  had  eyed  him  very  cautiously,  and  very  searchingly,  in 
spite  of  her  listless  bearing. 

"  §\jire  of  it,  Ma'am/'  rejoined  the  Major.    "  Cleopatra  the 


3^8  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

peerless,  and  her  Antony  Bagstock,  will  often  speak  of  thiSj 
triumphantly,  when  sharing  the  elegance  and  wealth  of  Edith 
Dombey's  establishment.  Dombey's  right-hand  man.  Ma'am," 
said  the  Major,  stopping  abruptly  in  a  chuckle,  and  becoming 
serious,  "  has  arrived." 

"  This  morning  ?  "  said  Cleopatra. 

"This  morning.  Ma'am,"  returned  the  Major.  "And  Dom- 
bey's anxiety  for  his  arrival,  Ma'am,  is  to  be  referred — take  J. 
B.'s  word  for  this  ;  for  Joe  is  de-vilish  sly" — the  Major  tapped 
his  nose,  and  screwed  up  one  of  his  eyes  tight :  which  did  not 
enhance  his  native  beauty — "  to  his  desire  that  what  is  in  the 
wind  should  become  known  to  him,  without  Dombey's  telling 
and  consulting  him.  For  Dombey  is  as  proud,  Ma'am,"  said 
the  Major,  "  as  Lucifer." 

"  A  charming  quality,"  lisped  Mrs.  Skewton  ;  "  reminding 
one  of  dearest  Edith." 

"  Well,  Ma'am,"  said  the  Major.  "  I  have  thrown  out  hints 
already,  and  the  right-hand  man  understands  'em;  and  I'll 
throw  out  more,  before  the  day  is  done.  Dombey  projected 
this  morning  a  ride  to  Warwick  Castle,  and  to  Kenilworth,  to- 
morrow, to  be  preceded  by  a  breakfast  with  us.  I  undertook 
the  delivery  of  this  invitation.  Will  you  honor  us  so  far, 
Ma'am .'' "  said  the  Major,  swelling  with  shortness  of  breath 
and  slyness,  as  he  produced  a  note,  addressed  to  the  Honora- 
ble Mrs.  Skewton,  by  favor  of  Major  Bagstock,  wherein  hers 
ever  faithfully,  Paul  Dombey,  besought  her  and  her  am.iable 
and  accomplished  daughter  to  consent  to  the  proposed  excur- 
sion ;  and  in  a  postscript  unto  which,  the  same  ever  faithfully 
Paul  Dombey  entreated  to  be  recalled  to  the  remembrance  of 
Mrs.  Granger. 

"  Hush  !  "  said  Cleopatra,  suddenly,  "  Edith  !  " 

The  loving  mother  can  scarcely  be  described  as  resuming 
her  insipid  and  affected  air  when  she  made  this  exclamation  ; 
for  she  had  never  cast  it  off ;  nor  was  it  likely  that  she  ever 
would  or  could,  in  any  other  place  than  in  the  grave.  But  hur- 
riedly dismissing  whatever  shadow  of  earnestness,  or  faint  con- 
fession of  a  purpose,  laudable  or  wicked,  that  her  face,  or  voice, 
or  manner,  had,  for  the  moment,  betrayed,  she  lounged  upon 
the  couch,  her  most  insipid  and  most  languid  self  again,  as 
Edith  entered  the  room. 

Edith,  so  beautiful  and  stately,  but  so  cold  and  so  repelling. 
Who,  slightly  acknowledging  the  presence  of  Major  Bagstock, 
and  directing  a  keen  glance  at  her  mother,  drew  back  the  cur 
tain  from  a  window,  and  sp'  down  there,  looking  out. 


i;HAbolvs  OF  Tim  past  and  i-uj^ukk.         355 

"  My  dearest  Edith,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  "  where  on  earth 
have  you  been  ?     I  have  wanted  you,  my  love,  most  sadly. 

"You  said  you  were  engaged,  and  I  stayed  away,"  she  an- 
swered, without  turning  her  head. 

"  It  was  cruel  to  Old  Joe,  Ma'am,"  said  the  Major  in  his 
gallantry. 

"  It  was  very  cruel,  I  know,"  she  said,  still  looking  out^ 
and  said  with  such  calm  disdain,  that  the  Major  was  discom- 
fited, and  could  think  of  nothing  in  reply. 

"  Major  Bagstock,  my  darling  Edith,"  drawled  her  mother, 
"  who  is  generally  the  most  useless  and  disagreeable  creature 
in  the  world  :  as  you  know — " 

"  It  is  surely  not  worth  while.  Mama,"  said  Edith,  looking 
round,  "  to  observe  these  forms  of  speech.  We  are  quite  alone. 
We  know  each  other." 

The  quiet  scorn  that  sat  upon  her  handsome  face — a  scorn 
that  evidently  lighted  on  herself,  no  less  than  them--was  so 
intense  and  deep,  that  her  mother's  simper,  for  the  instant, 
though  of  a  hardy  constitution,  drooped  before  it. 

"  My  darling  girl,"  she  began  again. 

"  Not  woman  yet  1 "  said  Edith,  with  a  smile. 

"  How  very  odd  you  are  to-day,  my  dear  !  Pray  let  me  say, 
my  love,  that  Major  Bagstock  has  brought  the  kindest  of  notes 
from  Mr.  Dombey,  proposing  that  we  should  breakfast  v/ith 
him  to-morrow,  and  ride  to  Warwick  and  Kenilworth.  Will 
you  go,  Edith  ?  " 

"  Will  I  go  !  "  she  repeated,  turning  very  red,  and  breath- 
ing quickly  as  she  looked  round  at  her  mother. 

"  I  knew  you  would,  my  own,"  observed  the  latter  care- 
lessly. "  It  is,  as  you  say,  quite  a  form  to  ask.  Here  is  Mr. 
Dombey's  letter,  Edith." 

"  Thank  you.  I  have  no  desire  to  read  it,"  was  her  an- 
swer. 

"  Then  perhaps  I  had  better  answer  it  myself,"  said  Mrs. 
Skewton,  "  though  I  had  thought  of  asking  you  to  be  my  sec- 
retary, darling."  As  Edith  made  no  movement  and  no  answer. 
Mrs.  Skewton  begged  the  Major  to  wheel  her  little  table  nearer, 
and  to  set  open  the  desk  it  contained,  and  to  take  out  pen  and 
paper  for  her  ;  all  which  congenial  offices  of  gallantry  the  Major 
dischaiged  with  much  submission  and  devotion, 

"  Your  regards,  Edith,  my  dear  ? "  said  Mrs.  Skewton, 
pausing,  pen  in  hand,  at  the  postscript. 

"  What  you  will.  Mama,"  she  answered,  without  turning  he' 
head,  and  with  supreme  indifference. 


360  DOMBEY  AND  SON: 

Mrs.  Skewton  wrote  what  slie  would,  without  seeking  foi 
any  more  explicit  directions,  and  handed  her  letter  to  the 
Major,  who  receiving  it  as  a  precious  charge,  made  a  show  of 
laying  it  near  his  heart,  but  was  fain  to  put  it  in  the  pocket  of 
his  paiTtaloons  on  account  of  the  insecurity  of  his  waistcoat. 
The  Major  then  took  a  very  polished  and  chivalrous  farewell  of 
both  ladies,  which  the  elder  one  acknowledged  in  her  usual 
manner,  while  the  younger,  sitting  with  her  face  addresseil  to 
the  window,  bent  her  head  so  slightly  that  it  would  have  been 
a  greater  compliment  to  the  Major,  to  have  made  no  sign  at 
all,  and  to  have  left  him  to  infer  that  he  had  not  been  heard  or 
thought  of. 

"As  to  alteration  in  her.  Sir,"  mused  the  Major  on  his  way 
back ;  on  which  expedition — the  afternoon  being  sunny  and 
hot — he  ordered  the  Native  and  the  light  baggage  to  the  front, 
and  walked  in  the  shadow  of  that  expatriated  prince  ;  "  as  to 
alteration.  Sir,  and  pining,  and  so  forth,  that  won't  go  down 
with  Joseph  Bagstock.  None  of  that,  Sir.  It  won't  do  here. 
But  as  to  there  being  something  of  a  division  between  'em — or 
a  gulf  as  the  mother  calls  it — damme,  Sir,  that  seems  true 
enough.  And  it's  odd  enough  !  Well,  Sir!  "  panted  the  Major, 
"  Edith  Granger  and  Dombey  are  well  matched ;  let  'em  fight 
it  out !     Bagstock  backs  the  winner  !  " 

The  Major,  by  saying  these  latter  words  aloud,  in  the  vigor 
of  his  thoughts,  caused  the  unhappy  Native  to  stop,  and  lurn 
round,  in  the  belief  that  he  was  personally  addressed.  Exas- 
perated to  the  last  degree  by  this  act  of  insubordination,  the 
Major  (though  he  was  swelling  with  enjoyment  of  his  own  hu- 
mor, at  the  moment  of  its  occurrence)  instantly  thrust  his  cane 
among  the  Native's  ribs,  and  continued  to  stir  him  up,  at  short 
intervals,  all  the  way  to  the  Hotel. 

Nor  was  the  Major  less  exasperated  as  he  dressed  for  dinner, 
during  which  operation  the  dark  servant  underwent  the  pelting 
of  a  shower  of  miscellaneous  objects,  varying  in  size  from  a 
boot  to  a  hairbrush,  and  including  everything  that  came  within 
his  master's  reach.  For  the  Major  pkmied  himself  on  having 
the  Native  in  a  perfect  state  of  drill,  and  visited  the  least  de- 
parture from  strict  discipline  with  this  kind  of  fatigue  duty. 
Add  to  this,  that  he  maintained  the  Native  about  his  person  as 
a  counter-irritant  against  the  gout,  and  all  other  vexations, 
mental  as  well  as  bodily  ;  and  the  Native  would  appear  to  have 
earned  his  pay — which  was  not  large. 

At  length,  the  Major  having  disposed  of  all  the  missiles  that 
were  convenient  to  his  hand,  and  having  called  the  Native  so 


SHADOWS  OF  THE  PAST  AND  FdTURE.  361 

many  new  names  as  must  have  given  him  great  occasion  to 
marvel  at  the  resources  of  the  EngHsh  language,  submitted  to 
have  his  cravat  put  on  ;  and  being  dressed,  and  finding  himself 
in  a  brisk  flow  of  spirits  after  this  exercise,  went  down  stairs  to 
enliven  "  Dombey  "  and  his  right-hand  man. 

Dombey  was  not  yet  in  the  room,  but  the  right-hand  man 
■was  there,  and  his  dental  treasures  were,  as  usual,  ready  for  the 
Major. 

"  Well,  Sir  !  "  said  the  Major.  "  How  have  you  passed  the 
time  since  I  had  the  happiness  of  meeting  you  ?  Have  you 
walked  at  all  ?  " 

"A  saunter  of  barely  half  an  hour's  duration,"  returned 
Carker,     "  We  have  been  so  much  occupied." 

"  Business,  eh  }  "  said  the  Major, 

"  A  variety  of  little  matters  necessary  to  be  gone  through," 
replied  Carker.  "  But  do  you  know — this  is  quite  unusual  with 
me,  educated  in  a  distrustful  school,  and  who  am  not  generally 
disposed  to  be  communicative,"  he  said,  breaking  off,  and  speak- 
ing in  a  charming  tone  of  frankness — "  but  I  feel  quite  confi 
dential  with  you.  Major  Bagstock." 

"  You  do  me  honor,  Sir,"  returned  the  Major.  "  You  may 
be." 

"  Do  you  know,  then,"  pursued  Carker,  "  that  I  have  not 
found  my  friend — oi/r  friend,  I  ought  rather  to  call  him — " 

"  Meaning  Dombey,  Sir?"  cried  the  Major,  "You see  me, 
Mr.  Carker,  standing  here  !  J.  B.  ?  " 

He  was  puffy  enough  to  see,  and  blue  enough ;  and  Mr. 
Carker  intimated  that  he  had  that  pleasure. 

"  Then  you  see  a  man.  Sir,  who  would  go  through  fire  and 
water  to  serve  Dombey,"  returned  Major  Bagstock. 

Mr.  Carker  smiled,  and  said  he  was  sure  of  it.  "  Do  you 
know.  Major,"  he  proceeded  :  "  to  resume  where  I  left  off  :  that 
I  have  not  found  our  friend  so  attentive  to  business  to-day.  as 
usual  ? " 

"  No  ?  "  observed  the  delighted  Major, 

"  I  have  found  him  a  little  abstracted,  and  with  his  atten- 
tion disposed  to  wander,"  said  Carker. 

"  By  Jove,  Sir,"  cried  the  Major,  "  there's  a  lady  in  the 
case." 

"Indeed,  I  begin  to  believe  there  really  is,"  returned  Car- 
ker; "I  thought  you  might  be  jesting  when  you  seemed  to  hint 
at  it ;  for  I  know  you  military  men — " 

The  Major  gave  the  horse's  cou2:h,  and  shook  his  head  and 
shoulders,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  Well  j  we  (tre  gay  dogs,  there's 
Id 


362 


DOMBEY  AA^D  SON. 


no  denying."  He  then  seized  Mr.  Carker  by  the  button-holc, 
and  with  starting  eyes  whispered  in  his  ear,  that  she  was  a  wo- 
man of  extraordinary  charms,  Sir.  That  she  was  a  young 
widow,  Sir.  That  she  was  of  a  fine  family,  Sir.  That  Dombey 
was  over  head  and  ears  in  love  with  her,  Sir,  and  that  it  would 
be  a  good  match  on  both  sides ;  for  she  had  beauty,  blood,  and 
talent,  and  Dombey  had  fortune  ;  and  what  more  could  any 
couple  have?  Hearing  Mr.  Dombey's  footsteps  without,  the 
Major  cut  himself  short  by  saying,  that  Mr.  Carker  would  see 
her  to  morrow  morning,  and  would  judge  for  himself ;  and  be- 
tween his  mental  excitement,  and  the  exertion  of  saying  all  this 
in  wheezy  whispers,  the  Major  sat  gurgling  in  the  throat  and 
watering  at  the  eyes,  until  dinner  was  ready. 
.  ,cA  The  Major,  like  some  other  noble  animals,  exhibited  himself 

^  Arf/*   ^\/\o  great  advantage  atfeeding  time.     On  this  occasion, he  shone 
I'  ,  .        '      resplendent  at  one  end   of  the  table,  supported  by  the  milder 
lustre  of  Mr.  Dombey  at  the  other  ;  while   Carker  on  one  side 
lent  his  ray  to  either  light,  or  suffered  it  to  merge  into  both,  as 
occasion  arose. 

During  the  first  course  or  two,  the  Major  was  usually  grave  : 
for  the  Native,  in  obedience  to  general  orders,  secretly  issued, 
collected  every  sauce  and  cruet  round  him,  and  gave  him  a  great 
deal  to  do,  in  taking  out  the  stoppers,  and  mixing  up  the  con- 
tents in  his  plate.  Besides  which,  the  Native  had  private  zests 
and  flavors  on  a  side-table,  with  which  the  Major  daily  scorched 
himself  ;  to  say  nothing  of  strange  machines  out  of  which  he 
spirted  unknown  liquids  into  the  Major's  drink.  But  on  this 
occasion.  Major  Bagstock,  even  amidst  these  many  occupations, 
found  time  to  be  social  ;  and  his  sociality  consisted  in  excessive 
slyness  for  the  behoof  of  Mr.  Carker,  and  the  betrayal  of  Mr. 
Dombey's  state  of  mind. 

"Dombey,"  said  tlie  Major,  "you  don't  eat;  what's  the 
matter  ?  " 

"  Thank  you,"  returned  that  gentleman,  "  I  am  doing  very 
well ;  [  have  no  great  appetite  to-day." 

"Why,  Dombey,  what's  become  of  it?"  asked  the  Major. 
"Where's  it  gone?  You  haven't  left  it  with  our  friends,  I'll 
swear,  for  I  can  answer  for  their  having  none  to-day  at  luncheon. 
I  can  answer  for  one  of  'em,  at  least :  I  won't  say  which." 

Then  the  Major  winked  at  Carker,  and  became  so  fright 
fully  sly,  that  his  dark  attendant  was  obliged  to  pat  him  on  the 
back,  without  orders,  or  he  would  probably  have  disappeared 
under  the  table. 

In  a  later  .stage  of  the  dinner :  that  is  to  say.  when  the  Na- 


SHADOWS  OF  THE  PAST  AND  FUTURE.  363 

tive  Stood  at  the  Major's  elbow  ready  to  serve  the  first  bottle  of 
champagne  :  the  Major  became  still  slyer. 

"  Fill  this  to  the  brim,  you  scoundrel,"  said  the  Major,  hold- 
ing up  his  glass.  "  Fill  Mr.  Carker's  to  the  brim  too.  And 
Mr.  Dombey's  too.  By  Gad  gentlemen,"  said  the  Major,  wink- 
ing at  his  new  friend,  while  Mr.  Dombey  looked  into  his  plate 
with  a  conscious  air,  "  we'll  consecrate  this  glass  of  wine  to  a 
Divinity  whom  Joe  is  proud  to  know,  and  at  a  distance  humbly 
and  reverently  to  admire.  Edith,"  said  the  Major,  "  is  her 
name  ;  angelic  Edith  ! " 

"  To  angelic  Edith  !  "  cried  the  smiling  Carker. 

"  Edith,  by  all  means,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

The  entrance  of  the  waiters  with  new  dishes  caused  the 
^!ajor  to  be  slyer  yet,  but  in  a  more  serious  vein.  "  For  though 
among  ourselves,  Joe  Bagstock  mingles  jest  and  earnest  on  this 
subject.  Sir,"  said  the  Major,  laying  his  finger  on  his  lips,  and 
speaking  half  apart  to  Carker,  "  he  holds  that  name  too  sacred 
to  be  made  the  property  of  these  fellows,  or  of  any  fellows. 
Not  a  word.  Sir,  while  they  are  here  !  " 

This  was  respectful  and  becoming  on  the  Major's  part,  and 
Mr.  Dombey  plainly  felt  it  so.  Although  embarrassed  in  his  own 
fiigid  way,  by  the  Major's  allusions,  Mr.  Dombey  had  no  ob- 
jection to  such  rallymg,  it  was  clear,  but  rather  courted  it.  Per- 
hips  the  Major  had  been  pretty  near  the  truth,  when  he  had 
d  vined  that  morning  that  the  great  man  who  was  too  haughty 
formally  to  consult  with,  or  confide  in  his  prime  minister,  on 
such  a  matter,  yet  wished  him  to  be  fully  possessed  of  it.  Let 
this  be  how  it  may,  he  often  glanced  at  Mr.  Carker  while  the 
Major  plied  his  light  artillery,  and  seemed  watchful  of  its  effect 
upon  him. 

But  the  Major,  having  secured  an  attentive  listener,  and  a 
smiler  who  had  not  his  match  in  all  the  world — "  in  short,  a  de- 
vilish intelligent  and  agreeable  fellow,"  as  he  often  afterwards 
declared — was  not  going  to  let  him  off  with  a  little  slyness  per- 
sonal to  Mr,  Dombey.  Therefore,  on  the  removal  of  the  cloth, 
the  Major  developed  himself  as  a  choice  spirit  in  the  broader 
and  more  comprehensive  range  of  narrating  regimental  stories, 
and  cracking  regimental  jokes,  which  he  did  with  such  prodigal 
exuberance,  that  Carker  was  (or  feigned  to  be)  quite  exhausted 
with  laughter  and  admiration:  while  Mr.  Dombey  looked  on 
over  his  starched  cravat,  like  the  Major's  proprietor,  or  like  a 
stately  showman  who  was  glad  to  see  his  bear  dancing  well. 

When  the  Major  was  too  hoarse  with  meat  and  drink,  and 
the  display  of  his  social  powers,  to  render  himself  intelligible 


364  DOM  BEY  AND  SO  A. 

any  longer,  they  adjourned  to  coffee.  After  which,  the  Major 
inquired  of  Mr.  Carker  the  Manager,  with  little  apparent  hope 
of  an  answer  in  the  affirmative,  if  he  played  picquet. 

"  Yes,  I  play  picquet  a  little,"  said  Mr.  Carker. 

"  Backgammon,  perhaps  ?  "  observed  the  Major,  hesitating. 

"  Yes,  I  play  backgammon  a  little  too,"  replied  the  man  of 
teeth. 

"  Carker  plays  at  all  games,  I  believe,"  said  Mr.  Dombey, 
laying  himself  on  a  sofa  like  a  man  of  wood  without  a  hinge  ot 
a  joint  in  him  ;  "  and  plays  them  well." 

In  sooth,  he  played  the  two  in  questioo.  to  such  perfection, 
that  the  Major  was  astonished,  and  asked  him,  at  random,  if  he 
played  chess. 

"  Yes,  1  play  chess  a  little,"  answered  Carker.  "  I  have 
sometimes  played,  and  won  a  game — it's  a  mere  trick — without 
seeing  the  board." 

"  By  Gad,  Sir!"  said  tlie  Major,  staring,  "you  are  a  con- 
trast to  Dombey,  who  plays  nothing." 

"Oh!  ZT^.^"  returned  the  Manager.  "  Z^  has  never  had 
occasion  to  acquire  such  little  arts.  To  men  like  me,  they  aie 
sometimes  useful.  As  at  present,  Major  Bagstock,  when  the)' 
enable  me  to  take  a  hand  with  you." 

It  might  be  only  the  false  mouth,  so  smooth  and  wide  ;  aixl 
yet  there  seemed  to  lurk  beneath  the  humility  and  subserviency 
of  this  short  speech,  a  something  like  a  snarl ;  and,  for  a  niD- 
ment,  one  might  have  thought  that  the  white  teeth  were  pror.e 
to  bite  the  hand  they  fawned  upon.  But  the  Major  thougl  t 
nothing  about  it ;  and  Mr.  Dombey  lay  meditating  with  his  eyes 
half  shut,  during  the  whole  of  the  play,  which  lasted  until  bed- 
time. 

By  that  time,  Mr.  Carker,  though  the  winner,  had  mounted 
high  into  the  Major's  good  opinion,  insomuch  that  when  he  left 
the  Major  at  his  own  room  before  going  to  bed,  the  Major  as 
a  special  attention,  sent  the  Native — who  always  rested  on  a 
mattress  spread  upon  the  ground  at  his  master's  door — along 
the  gallery,  to  light  him  to  his  room  in  state. 

There  was  a  faint  blur  on  the  surface  of  the  mirror  in  Mr. 
Carker's  chamber,  and  its  reflection  was,  perhaps,  a  false  one. 
But  it  showed,  tliat  night,  the  image  of  a  man,  who  saw,  in  his 
fancy,  a  crowd  of  people  slumbering  on  the  ground  at  his  feet, 
like  the  poor  Native  at  his  master's  door  :  who  picked  his  way 
among  them  :  looking  down,  maliciously  enough  :  but  trod  upon 
no  upturned  face — as  yeu 


£>££2>£R  SHADOWS.  -^d 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

DEEPER   SHADOWS. 

Mr.  Carker  the  Manager  rose  with  the  lark,  and  went  out,' 
walking  in  the  summer  clay.  His  meditations — and  he  medi- 
tated with  contracted  brows  while  he  strolled  along — hardly 
seemed  to  soar  as  high  as  the  lark,  or  to  mount  in  that 
direction  ;  rather  they  kept  close  to  their  nest  upon  the  earth, 
md  looked  about,  among  the  dust  and  worms.  But  there  was 
rot  a  bird  in  the  air,  singing  unseen,  farther  beyond  the  reach 
d.  human  eye  than  Mr.  Carker's  thoughts.  He  had  his  face 
S3  perfectly  under  control,  that  few  could  say  more,  in  distinct 
ferms,  of  its  expression,  than  that  it  smiled  or  that  it  pondered, 
"t  pondered  now,  intently.  As  the  lark  rose  higher,  he  sank 
teeper  in  thought.  As  the  lark  poured  out  her  melody  clearer 
aid  stronger,  he  fell  into  a  graver  and  profounder  silence.  At 
kngth,  when  the  lark  came  headlong  down,  with  an  accumula- 
tng  stream  of  song,  and  dropped  among  the  green  wheat  near 
lim,  rippling  in  the  breath  of  the  morning  like  a  river,  he 
©rang  up  from  his  reverie,  and  looked  round  with  a  sudden 
snile,  as  courteous  and  as  soft  as  if  he  had  had  numerous 
(bservers  to  propitiate  ;  nor  did  he  relapse,  after  being  thus 
.•wakened  ;  but  clearing  his  face,  like  one  who  bethought  him- 
elf  that  it  might  otherwise  wrinkle  and  tell  tales,  went  smiling 
)n,  as  if  for  practice. 

Perhaps  with  an  eye  to  first  impressions,  Mr.  Carker  was 
^ery  carefully  and  trimly  dressed,  that  morning.  Though 
always  somewhat  formal,  in  his  dress,  in  imitation  of  the  great 
man  whom  he  served,  he  stopped  short  of  the  extent  of  Mr. 
Dombey's  stiffness  :  at  once  perhaps  because  he  knew  it  to  be 
ludicrous,  and  because  in  doing  so  he  found  another  means  of 
expressing  his  sense  of  the  difference  and  distance  between 
them.  Some  people  quoted  him  indeed,  in  this  respect,  as  a 
pointed  commentary,  and  not  a  flattering  one,  on  his  icy 
patron — but  the  world  is  prone  to  misconstruction,  and  Mr. 
Carker  was  not  accountable  for  its  bad  propensity. 

Clean  and  florid  :  with  his  light  complexion,  fading  as  it 
were,  in  the  sun,  and  his  dainty  step  enhancing  the  softness  of 
the  turf :  Mr.  Carker  the  Manager  strolled  about  meadows, 
and  green  lanes,  and  glided  among  avenues  of  trees,  until  it 


364  Dome EY  AND  SON. 

■was  time  to  return  to  breakfast.  Taking  a  nearer  way  back, 
Mr.  Carker  pursued  it,  airing  his  teeth,  and  said  aloud  as  he 
did  so,  "  Now  to  see  the  second  Mrs.  Douibey  !  " 

He  had  strolled  beyond  the  town,  and  re-entered  it  by  a 
pleasant  walk,  where  there  was  a  deep  shade  of  leafy  trees,  and 
where  there  were  a  few  benches  here  and  there  for  those  who 
chose  to  rest.  It  not  being  a  place  of  general  resort  at  any 
hour,  and  wearing  at  that  time  of  the  still  morning  the  air  of 
being  quite  deserted  and  retired,  Mr.  Carker  had  it,  or  thought 
he  had  it,  all  to  himself.  So,  with  the  whim  of  an  idle  man,  to 
whom  there  yet  remained  twenty  minutes  for  reaching  a  des- 
tination easily  accessible  in  ten,  Mr,  Carker  threaded  the  great 
boles  of  the  trees,  and  went  passing  in  and  out,  before  this  one 
and  behind  that,  weaving  a  chain  of  footsteps  on  the  dewr 
ground. 

But  he  found  he  was  mistaken  in  supposing  there  was  n« 
one  in  the  grove,  for  as  he  softly  rounded  the  trunk  of  one 
large  tree,  on  which  the  obdurate  bark  was  knotted  and  over 
lapped  like  the  hide  of  a  rhinoceros  or  some  kindred  monster 
of  the  ancient  days  before  the  Flood,  he  saw  an  unexpectec 
figure  sitting  on  a  bench  near  at  hand,  about  which,  in  anothei 
moment,  he  would  have  wound  the  chain  he  was  making. 

It  was  that  of  a  lady,  elegantly  dressed  and  very  handsome 
whose  dark  proud  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  ground,  and  ir 
whom  some  passion  or  struggle  was  raging.  For  as  she  sal 
looking  down,  she  held  a  corner  of  her  under  lip  within  hei 
mouth,  her  bosom  heaved,  her  nostrils  quivered,  her  head  trem- 
bled, indignant  tears  were  on  her  cheek,  and  her  foot  was  set 
upon  the  moss  as  though  she  would  have  crushed  it  into  noth- 
ing. And  yet  almost  the  self-same  glance  that  showed  him 
this,  showed  him  the  self-same  lady  rising  with  a  scornful  air 
of  weariness  and  lassitude,  and  turning  away  with  nothing  ex- 
pressed in  her  face  or  figure  but  careless  beauty  and  imperious 
disdain. 

A  withered  and  very  ugly  old  woman,  dressed  not  so  much 
like  a  gypsy  as  like  any  of  that  medley  race  of  vagabonds  who 
tramp  about  the  country,  begging,  and  stealing,  and  tinkering, 
and  weaving  rushes,  by  turns,  or  all  together,  had  been  observ- 
ing the  lady,  too ;  for,  as  she  rose,  this  second  figure  strangely 
confronting  the  first,  scrambled  up  from  the  ground — out  of  it, 
it  almost  appeared — and  stood  in  the  way. 

"  Let  me  tell  your  fortune,  my  pretty  lady,"  said  the  old 
woman,  munching  with  her  jaws,  as  if  the  Death's  Head  be- 
neath her  yellow  skin  were  impatient  to  get  out. 


DEEPER  SHADOWS.  367 

**  I  can  tell  it  for  myself,"  was  the  reply. 

"Ay,  ay,  pretty  lady;  but  not  right.  You  didn't  tell  it 
right  when  you  were  sitting  there.  I  see  you  !  Give  me  a 
piece  of  silver,  pretty  lady,  and  I'll  tell  your  fortune  true. 
There's  riches,  pretty  lady,  in  your  face." 

"  I  know,"  returned  the  lady,  passing  her  with  a  dark  smile, 
and  a  proud  step.     "  I  knew  it  before." 

"  What !  You  won't  give  me  nothing  ? "  cried  the  old 
woman.  "  You  won't  give  me  nothing  to  tell  your  fortune, 
pretty  lady?  How  much  will  you  give  me  7iot  to  tell  it,  then  } 
Give  me  something,  or  I'll  call  it  after  you  !  "  croaked  the  old 
woman,  passionately. 

Mr.  Carker,  whom  the  lady  was  about  to  pass  close,  slinking 
against  his  tree  as  she  crossed  to  gain  the  path,  advanced  so  as 
to  meet  her,  and  pulling  off  his  hat  as  she  went  by,  bade  the 
old  woman  hold  her  peace.  The  lady  acknowledged  his  inter- 
ference with  an  inclination  of  the  head,  and  went  her  way. 

"  You  give  me  something  then,  or  I'll  call  it  after  her  !  " 
screamed  the  old  woman,  throwing  up  her  arms,  and  pressing 
forward  against  his  outstretched  hands.  "Or  come,"  she  added, 
dropping  her  voice  suddenly,  looking  at  him  earnestly,  and 
seeming  in  a  moment  to  forget  the  object  of  her  wrath,  "  give 
me  something,  or  I'll  call  it  after  j^///" 

"After  7ne,  old  lady!  "  returned  the  Manager,  putting  his 
hand  in  his  pocket. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  woman,  steadfast  in  her  scrutiny,  and  hold- 
ing out  her  shrivelled  hand.     "  /  know  ! " 

■'  What  do  you  know .?  "  demanded  Carker,  throwing  her  a 
shilling,     "  Do  you  know  who  the  handsome  lady  is? " 

Munching  like  that  sailor's  wife  of  yore,  who  had  chestnuts 
in  her  lap,  and  scowling  like  the  witch  who  asked  for  some  in 
vain,  the  old  woman  picked  the  shilling  up,  and  going  back- 
wards, like  a  crab,  or  like  a  heap  of  crabs  :  for  her  alternately 
expanding  and  contracting  hands  might  have  represented  two 
of  that  species,  and  her  creeping  face,  some  half-a-dozen  more; 
crouched  on  the  veinous  root  of  an  old  tree,  pulled  out  a  short 
black  pipe  from  within  the  crown  of  her  bonnet,  lighted  it  with 
a  match,  and  smoked  in  silence,  looking  fixedly  at  her  ques- 
tioner. 

Mr.  Carker  laughed,  and  turned  upon  his  heel. 

"  Good  !  "  said  the  old  woman.  "  One  child  dead,  and  one 
child  living ;  one  wife  dead,  and  one  wife  coming.  Go  and 
meet  her !  " 

In  spite  6f  himself,  the  Manager  looked  round  again,  and 


368  DOMBEV  AND  i^^iv. 

Stopped.  The  old  woman,  who  had  not  removed  hei  pipe,  and 
was  munching  and  mumbling  while  she  smoked,  as  if  in  conver- 
sation with  an  invisible  familiar,  pointed  with  her  finger  in  the 
direction  he  was  going,  and  laughed. 

"  What  was  that  you  said,  Beldamite  ?  "  he  demanded. 

The  woman  mumbled,  and  chattered,  and  smoked,  and  still 
pointed  before  him  ;  but  remained  silent.  Muttering  a  farewell 
that  was  not  complimentary,  Mr.  Carker  pursued  his  way  ;  but 
as  he  turned  out  of  that  place,  and  looked  over  his  shoulder  at 
the  root  of  the  old  tree,  he  could  yet  see  the  finger  pointing  be- 
fore him,  and  thought  he  heard  the  woman  screaming,  "  Go 
and  meet  her!" 

Preparations  for  a  choice  repast  were  completed,  he  found, 
at  the  hotel ;  and  Mr.  Dombey,  and  the  Major,  and  the  break- 
fast were  awaiting  the  ladies.  Individual  constitution  has  much 
to  do  with  the  development  of  such  facts,  no  doubt ;  but  in  this 
case,  appetite  carried  it  hollow  over  the  tender  passion  ;  Mr. 
Dombey  being  very  cool  and  collected,  and  the  Major  fretting 
and  fumnig  in  a  state  of  violent  heat  and  irritation.  At  length 
the  door  was  thrown  open  by  the  Native,  and,  after  a  pause 
occupied  by  her  languishing  along  the  gallery,  a  very  blooming, 
but  not  very  youthful  lady,  appeared. 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Dombey,"  said  the  lady,  "  I  am  afraid  we  are 
late,  but  Edith  has  been  out  already  looking  for  a  favorable  point 
of  view  for  a  sketch,  and  kept  me  waiting  for  her.  Falsest  of 
Majors,"  giving  him  her  little  finger,  "  how  do  you  do.?  " 

"Mrs.  Skevvton,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "let  me  gratify  my 
friend  Carker :  "  Mr.  Dombey  unconsciously  emphasized  the 
word  friend,  as  saying  '  no  really ;  I  do  allow  him  to  take  credit 
for  that  distinction  ; '  "by  presenting  him  to  you.  You  have 
heard  me  mention  Mr.  Carker." 

"  I  am  charmed,  I  am  sure,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton. 

Mr.  Carker  was  charmed,  of  course.  Would  he  have  oeen 
more  charmed  on  Mr.  Dombey's  behalf,  if  Mrs.  Skewton  had 
been  (as  he  at  first  supposed  her)  the  Edith  whom  they  had 
toasted  over  night .'' 

"  Why,  where  for  Heaven's  sake,  is  Edith  ?  "  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Skewton,  looking  round.  "  Still  at  the  door,  giving  Withers 
orders  about  the  mounting  of  those  drawings  !  My  dear  Mr. 
Dombey,  will  you  have  the  kindness — " 

Mr.  Dombey  was  already  gone  to  seek  her.  Next  moment 
he  returned,  bearing  on  his  arm  the  same  elegantly  dressed 
and  very  handsome  Udy  whom  Mr.  Carker  had  encountered 
underneath  the  trees. 


DEEPER  SHADOWS,  3^5 

*'  Carker — "  began  Mr.  Dombey.  But  their  recognition  of 
each  other  was  so  manifest,  that  Mr.  Dombey  stopped  surprised. 

"  I  am  obliged  to  the  gentleman,"  said  Edith,  with  a  stately 
bend,  "  for  sparing  me  some  annoyance  from  an  importunate 
beggar  just  now." 

"  I  am  obliged  to  my  good  fortune,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  bow- 
ing low,  "  for  the  opportunity  of  rendering  so  slight  a  service 
to  one  whose  servant  I  am  proud  to  be." 

As  her  eye  rested  on  him  for  an  instant,  and  then  lighted 
on  the  ground,  he  saw  in  its  bright  and  searching  glance  a  sus- 
picion that  he  had  not  come  up  at  the  moment  of  his  interfer- 
ence, but  had  secretly  observed  her  sooner.  As  he  saw  that, 
she  saw  in  his  eye  that  her  distrust  was  not  without  foundation. 

'*  Really,  cried  Mrs.  Skewton,  who  had  taken  this  opportu- 
nity of  inspecting  Mr.  Carker  through  her  glass,  and  satisfying 
herself  (as  she  lisped  audibly  to  the  Major)  that  he  was  all 
heart ;  really  now,  this  is  one  of  the  most  enchanting  coinci- 
dences that  I  ever  heard  of.  The  idea !  My  dearest  Edith, 
there  is  such  an  obvious  destiny  in  it,  that  really  one  might  be 
almost  induced  to  cross  one's  arms  upon  one's  frock,  and  say, 
like  those  wicked  Turks,  there  is  no  What's-his-name  but 
Thingummy,  and  What-you-may-call-it  is  his  prophet !  " 

Edith  deigned  no  revision  of  this  extraordinary  quotation 
from  the  Koran,  but  Mr.  Dombey  felt  it  necessary  to  offer  a 
few  polite  remarks. 

"  It  gives  me  great  pleasure,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  with  cum- 
brous gallantry,  "  that  a  gentleman  so  nearly  connected  with 
myself  as  Carker  is,  should  have  had  the  honor  and  happiness 
of  rendering  the  least  assistance  to  Mrs.  Granger.'  Mr.  Dom- 
bey bowed  to  her.  "  But  it  gives  me  some  pain,  and  it  occa- 
sions me  to  be  really  envious  of  Carker  ;  "  he  unconsciously 
laid  stress  on  these  words,  as  sensible  that  they  must  appear 
to  involve  a  very  surprising  proposition  ;  "  envious  of  Carker, 
that  I  had  not  that  honor  and  that  happiness  myself."  Mr. 
Dombey  bowed  again.  Edith,  saving  for  a  curl  of  her  lip,  was 
motionless. 

"  By  the  Lord,  Sir,"  cried  the  Major,  bursting  into  speech 
at  sight  of  the  waiter,  who  was  come  to  announce  breakfast, 
"  it's  an  extraordinary  thing  to  me  that  no  one  can  have  the 
honor  and  happiness  ol  shooting  all  such  beggars  through  the 
head  without  being  brought  to  book  for  it.  But  here's  an  arm 
for  Mrs.  Granger  if  she'll  do  J.  B.  the  honor  to  accept  it ;  snd 
the  greatest  service  Joe  can  render  you,  Ma'am,  just  now,  is  to 
kad  you  in  to  table  1 


370 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


With  this,  the  Major  gave  his  arm  to  Edith  ;  Mr.  Dombey 
led  the  way  with  Mrs.  Skewton ;  Mr.  Carker  went  last,  smihng 
on  the  party. 

"  I  am  quite  rejoiced,  Mr.  Carker,"  said  the  lady-mother, 
at  breakfast,  after  another  approving  survey  of  him  through 
her  glass,  "  that  you  have  timed  your  visit  so  happily,  as  to  go 
with  us  to-day.     It  is  the  most  enchanting  expedition  !  "  ^ 

"  Any  expedition  would  be  enchanting  in  such  society," 
returned  Carker ;  "  but  I  believe  it  is,  in  itself,  full  of  inter- 
est." 

"  Oh  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Skewton,  with  a  faded  little  scream  of 
rapture,  "  the  castle  is  charming  ! — associations  of  the  Middle 
Ages — and  all  that — which  is  so  truly  exquisite.  Don't  you 
doat  upon  the  Middle  Ages,  Mr.  Carker  ?  " 

"Very  much,  indeed,"  said  Mr.  Carker. 

•'  Such  charming  times  !  "  cried  Cleopatra.  "  So  full  of 
faith  !  So  vigorous  and  forcible  !  So  picturesque  !  So  per- 
fectly removed  from  crmmonplace  !  Oh  dear  !  If  they  would 
only  leave  us  a  little  mi  re  of  the  poetry  of  existence  in  these 
terrible  days  !  " 

Mrs.  Skewton  was  looking  sharp  after  Mr.  Dombey  all 
the  time  she  said  this,  who  was  looking  at  Edith  :  who  was  list- 
ening, but  who  never  lifter!  up  her  eyes. 

"  We  are  dreadfully  loal,  Mr.  Carker,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton  ; 
"  are  we  not  ?  " 

Few  people  had  less  reason  to  complain  of  their  reality 
than  Cleopatra,  who  had  as  much  that  was  false  about  her  as 
could  well  go  to  the  composition  of  anybody  with  a  real  indi- 
vidual existence.  But  Mr.  Carker  commiserated  our  reality 
nevertheless,  and  agreed  that  we  were  very  hardly  used  in  tha*: 
regard. 

"  Pictures  at  the  Castle,  quite  divine  !  "  said  Cleopatra. 
"  I  hope  you  doat  upon  pictures  ?  " 

"  I  assure  you,  Mrs.  Skewton,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  with 
solemn  encouragement  of  his  Manager,  "  that  Carker  has  a 
very  good  taste  for  pictures  ■.  quite  a  natural  power  of  appre- 
ciating them.  He  is  a  very  creditable  artist  himself.  He  will 
be  delighted,  I  am  sure,  with  Mrs.  Granger's  taste  and  skill." 

"  Damme,  Sir  !  "  cried  Major  Bagstock,  "  my  opinion  is,  that 
you're  the  admirable  Carker.  and  can  do  anything." 

"Oh  !  "  smiled  Carker,  with  humility,  "  you  are  much  too 
sanguine,  Major  Bagstock.  I  can  do  very  little.  But  Mr. 
Dombey  is  so  generous  in  his  estimation  of  any  trivial  accom- 
plishment a  man  like  myself  may  find  it  almost  necessary  to 


DEEPER  SHADOWS.  -571 

acquire,  and  to  which,  in  liis  very  different  sphere,  he  k  fat 
superior,  that — "  Mr.  Carker  shrugged  his  shoulders,  depre- 
cating further  praise,  and  said  no  more. 

All  this  time,  Edith  never  raised  her  eyes,  unless  to  glance 
towards  her  mother  when  tliat  lady's  fervent  spirit  shone  forth 
in  words.  But  as  Carker  ceased,  she  looked  at  Mr.  Dombey 
for  a  moment.  For  a  moment  only  ;  but  with  a  transient  gleam 
of  scornful  wonder  on  her  face,  not  lost  on  one  observer,  who 
was  smiling  round  the  board. 

Mr.  Dombey  caught  the  dark  eyelash  in  its  descent,  and 
took  the  opportunity  of  arresting  it. 

"  You  have  been  to  Warwick  often,  unfortunately  ?  "  said 
Mr.  Dombey." 

"  Several  times." 

"The  visit  will  be  tedious  to  you,  I  am  afraid." 

"  Oh  no  ;  not  at  all." 

"  Ah  !  You  are  like  your  cousin  Feenix,  my  dearest  Edith," 
said  Mrs.  Skewton.  "He  has  been  to  Warwick  Castle  fifty 
times,  if  he  has  been  there  once  ;  yet  if  he  came  to  Leamington 
to-morrow — I  wish  he  would,  dear  angel  ! — he  would  make  his 
fifty-second  visit  next  day." 

"  We  are  all  enthusiastic,  are  we  not.  Mama  ?  "  said  Edith, 
with  a  cold  smile. 

"  Too  much  so,  for  our  peace,  perhaps,  my  dear,"  returned 
her  mother  ;  "  but  we  won't  complain.  Our  own  emotions  are 
our  recompense.  If,  as  your  cousin  Feenix  says,  the  sword 
wears  out  the  what's-its-name — " 

"  The  scabbard,  perhaps,"  said  Edith. 

"  Exactly — a  little  too  fast,  it  is  because  it  is  bright  and 
glowing,  you  know,  my  dearest  love," 

Mrs.  Skewton  heaved  a  gentle  sigh,  supposed  to  cast  a 
shadow  on  the  surface  of  that  dagger  of  lath,  whereof  her  sus- 
ceptible bosom  was  the  sheath  ;  and  leaning  her  head  on  one 
side,  in  the  Cleopatra  manner,  looked  with  pensive  affection  on 
her  darling  child. 

Edith  had  turned  her  face  towards  Mr.  Dombey  when  he 
first  addressed  her,  and  had  remained  in  that  attitude,  while 
speaking  to  her  mother,  and  while  her  mother  spoke  to  her, 
as  though  offering  him  her  attention,  if  he  had  anything  more 
to  say.  There  was  something  in  the  manner  of  this  simple 
courtesy  :  almost  defiant,  and  giving  it  the  character  of  being 
rendered  on  compulsion,  or  as  a  matter  of  traffic  to  which  she 
was  a  reluctant  party  :  again  not  lost  upon  that  same  observer 
who  was  smiling  round  the  board.     It  set  him  thinking  of  her 


2^2  DOMBEY  AND  SON". 

as  he  had  first  seen  her,  when  she  had  believed  herself  to  be 
alone  among  the  trees. 

Mr.  Dombey  havuig  nolhhig  else  to  say,  proposed — the 
breakfast  being  now  finished,  and  the  Major  gorged,  like  any 
Boa  Constrictor — that  they  should  start.  A  barouche  being  in 
waiting,  according  to  the  orders  of  that  gentleman,  the  two 
ladies,  the  Major  and  himself,  took  their  seats  in  it ;  the  Na- 
tive and  the  wan  page  mounted  the  box,  Mr.  Towlinson  being 
left  behind  ;  and  Mr.  Carker,  on  horseback,  brought  up  the 
rear. 

Mr.  Carker  cantered  behind  the  carriage,  at  the  distance  of 
a  hundred  yards  or  so,  and  watched  it,  during  all  the  ride,  as  if 
he  were  a  cat,  indeed,  and  its  four  occupants,  mice.  Whether 
he  looked  to  one  side  of  the  road,  or  to  the  other — over  distant 
landscape,  with  its  smooth  undulations,  wind-mills,  corn,  grass, 
bean  fields,  wild-flowers,  farm-yards,  hayricks,  and  the  spire 
among  the  wood — or  upwards  in  the  sunny  air,  where  butter- 
flies were  sporting  round  his  head,  and  birds  were  pouring  out 
their  songs — or  downward,  where  the  shadows  of  the  branches 
interlaced,  and  made  a  trembling  carpet  on  the  road — or  on- 
ward, where  the  overhanging  trees  formed  aisles  and  arches, 
dim  with  the  softened  light  that  steeped  through  leaves — one 
corner  of  his  eye  was  ever  on  the  formal  head  of  Mr.  Dombey, 
addressed  towards  him,  and  the  feather  in  the  bonnet,  droop- 
ing so  neglectfully  and  scornfully  between  them  ;  much  as  he 
had  seen  the  haughty  eyelids  droop ;  not  least  so,  when  the 
face  met  that  now  fronting  it.  Once,  and  once  only,  did  his 
wary  glance  release  these  objects  ;  and  that  was,  when  a  leap 
over  a  low  hedge,  and  a  gallop  across  a  field,  enabled  him  to 
anticipate  the  carriage  coming  by  the  road,  and  to  be  standing 
ready,  at  the  journey's  end,  to  hand  the  ladies  out.  Then,  ancl 
but  then,  he  met  her  glance  for  an  instant  in  her  first  surprise  ; 
but  when  he  touched  her,  in  alighting,  with  his  soft  white  hand, 
it  overlooked  him  altogether  as  before. 

Mrs.  Skewton  was  bent  on  taking  charge  of  Mr.  Carker 
herself,  and  showing  him  the  beauties  of  the  Castle.  She  was 
determined  to  have  his  arm,  and  the  Major's  too.  It  would  do 
that  incorrigible  creature  :  who  was  the  most  barbarous  infidel 
in  point  of  poetry :  good  to  be  in  such  company.  This  chance 
arrangement  left  Mr.  Dombey  at  liberty  to  escort  Edith  :  which 
he  did,  stalking  before  them  through  the  apartments  with  a  gen- 
tlemanly solemnity. 

"  Those  darling  by-gone  times,  Mr.  Carker,"  said  Cleopatra, 
*'with  their  delicious  fortresses,  and  their  dear  old  dungeons, 


D  Eli  PER  SHADOWS.  gyj 

and  their  delightful  places  of  torture,  and  their  romantic  ven- 
geances, and  their  picturesque  assaults  and  sieges,  and  every- 
thing that  makes  life  truly  charming  !  How  dreadfully  we  have 
degenerated  !  " 

"  Yes,  we  have  fallen  off  deplorably,"  said  Mr.  Carker. 

The  peculiarity  of  their  conversation  was,  that  Mrs.  Skew- 
ton,  in  spite  of  her  ecstasies,  and  Mr.  Carker,  in  spite  of  his 
urbanity,  were  both  intent  on  watching  Mr.  Dombey  and  Edith. 
With  all  their  conversational  endowments,  they  spoke  some- 
what distractedly,  and  at  random  in  consequence. 

"  We  have  no  Faith  left,  positively,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton 
advancing  her  shrivelled  ear ;  for  Mr.  Dombey  was  saying 
something  to  Edith.  "We  have  no  Faith  in  the  dear  old 
Barons,  who  were  the  most  delightful  creatures — or  in  the  dear 
old  Priests,  who  were  the  most  warlike  of  men — or  even  in  the 
days  of  that  inestimable  Queen  Bess,  upon  the  wall  there,  which 
were  so  extremely  golden.  Dear  creature  !  She  was  all  Heart ! 
And  that  charming  father  of  hers  !  I  hope  you  doat  on  Harry 
the  Eighth  !  " 

"  I  admire  him  very  much,"  said  Carker. 

"  So  bluff  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Skewton,  "  wasn't  he  ?  So  burly. 
So  truly  English.  Such  a  picture,  too,  he  makes,  with  his  dear 
little  peepy  eyes,  and  his  benevolent  chin  !  " 

"  Ah,  Ma'am  !  "  said  Carker,  stopping  short  ;  "  but  if  you 
speak  of  pictures,  there's  a  composition  !  What  gallery  in  the 
world  can  produce  the  counterpart  of  that !  " 

As  the  smiling  gentleman  thus  spake,  he  pointed  through  a 
doorway  to  where  Mr.  Dombey  and  Edith  were  standing  alone 
in  the  centre  of  another  room. 

They  were  not  interchanging  a  word  or  a  look.  Standing 
together,  arm  in  arm,  they  had  the  appearance  of  being  more 
divided  than  if  seas  had  rolled  between  them.  There  was  a 
difference  even  in  the  pride  of  the  two,  that  removed  them 
farther  from  each  other,  than  if  one  had  tjeen  the  proudest  and 
the  other  the  humblest  specimen  of  humanity  in  all  creation. 
He,  self-important,  unbending,  formal,  austere.  She,  lovely 
and  graceful  in  an  uncommon  degree,  but  totally  regardless  of 
herself  and  him  and  everything  around,  and  spurning  her  own 
attractions  with  her  haughty  brow  and  lip,  as  if  they  were  a 
badge  or  livery  she  hated.  So  unmatched  were  they,  and 
opposed,  so  forced  and  linked  together  by  a  chain  which 
adverse  hazard  and  mischance  had  forged  :  that  fancy  might 
have  imagined  the  pictures  on  the  walls  around  them,  startled 
by  the  unnatural  conjunction,  and  observant  of  it  in   their 


2^4  DOM  BE  V  A  ND  S0^\ 

geverai  expressions.  Grim  knights  and  warriors  looked  scowl 
ing  on  them.  A  churchman,  with  his  hand  upraised,  denounced 
the  mockery  of  such  a  couple  coming  to  God's  altar.  Quiet 
waters  in  landscapes,  with  the  sun  reflected  in  their  depths, 
asked,  if  better  means  of  escape  were  not  at  hand,  was  there 
no  drowning  left?  Ruins  cried,  'Look  here,  and  see  what  We 
are,  wedded  to  uncongenial  Time  ! '  Animals,  opposed  by 
nature,  worried  one  another,  as  a  moral  to  them.  Loves  and 
Cupids  took  to  flight  afraid,  and  Martyrdom  had  no  such 
torment  in  its  painted  history  of  suffering. 

Nevertheless,  Mrs.  Skewton  was  so  charmed  by  the  sight  to 
which  Mr.  Carker  invoked  her  attention,  that  she  could  not 
refrain  from  saying,  half  aloud,  how  sweet,  how  very  full  of 
soul  it  was!  Edith,  overhearing,  loolced  round,  and  flushed 
indignant  scarlet  to  her  hair. 

"  My  dearest  Edith  knows  I  was  admiring  her !  "  said  Cleo- 
patra, tapping  her,  almost  timidly,  on  the  back  with  her  parasol. 
**  Sweet  pet !  " 

Again  Mr.  Carker  saw  the  strife  he  had  witnessed  so  unex- 
pectedly among  the  trees.  Again  he  saw  the  haughty  languor 
and  indifference  come  over  it,  and  hide  it  like  a  cloud. 

She  did  not  raise  her  eyes  to  him ;  but  with  a  slight 
peremptory  motion  of  them,  seemed  to  bid  her  mother  come 
near.  Mrs.  Skewton  thought  it  expedient  to  understand  the 
hint,  and  advancing  quickly,  with  her  two  cavaliers,  kept  near 
her  daughter  from  that  time. 

Mr.  Carker  now,  having  nothing  to  distract  his  attention, 
began  to  discourse  upon  the  pictures,  and  to  select  the  best, 
and  point  them  out  to  Mr.  Dombey  :  speaking  with  his  usual 
familiar  recognition  of  Mr.  Dombey's  greatness,  and  rendering 
homage  by  adjusting  his  eye-glass  for  him,  or  finding  out  the 
right  place  in  his  catalogue,  or  holding  his  stick,  or  the  like. 
These  services  did  not  so  much  originate  wkh  Mr.  Carker,  in 
truth,  as  with  Mr.  Dombey  himself,  who  was  apt  to  assert  his 
chieftainship  by  saying,  with  subdued  authority,  and  in  an  easy 
way — for  him — "  Here,  Carker,  have  the  goodness  to  assist 
me,  will  you  ?  "  which  the  smiling  gentleman  always  did  with 
pleasure. 

They  made  the  tour  of  the  pictures,  the  walls,  crow's  nest, 
and  so  forth  ;  and  as  they  were  still  one  little  party,  and  the 
Major  was  rather  in  the  shade  :  being  sleepy  during  the  process 
of  digestion  :  Mr.  Carker  became  communicative  and  agreeable. 
At  first,  he  addressed  himself  for  the  most  part  to  Mrs.  Skewton  ; 
but  as  that  sensitive  lady  was  in  such  ecstasies  vvith  the  works 


DEEPER  SfTADOWS.  375 

of  art,  after  tlie  first  quarter  of  an  hour,  that  she  could  do  noth- 
ing but  yawn  (they  were  such  perfect  inspirations  she  ob- 
served as  a  reason  for  that  mark  of  rapture),  he  transferred  his 
attentions  to  Mr.  Dombey.  Mr.  Donibey  said  little  beyond  an 
occasional  "Very  true,  Carker,"  or  "  indeed,  Carker,"  but  he 
tacitly  encouraged  Carker  to  proceed,  and  inwardly  approved 
of  his  behavior  very  much  :  deeming  it  as  well  that  somebody 
should  talk,  and  thinking  that  his  remarks,  which  were,  as  one 
might  say,  a  branch  of  the  parent  establishment,  might  amuse 
Mrs.  Granger.  Mr.  Carker,  who  possessed  an  excellent  discre- 
tion, never  took  the  liberty  of  addressing  that  lady,  direct  ;  but 
she  seemed  to  listen,  though  she  never  looked  at  him  ;  and  once 
or  twice,  when  he  was  emphatic  in  his  peculiar  humility,  the 
twilight  smile  stole  over  her  face,  not  as  a  light,  but  as  a  deep 
black  shadow. 

Warwick  Castle  being  at  length  pretty  well  exhausted,  and 
the  Major  very  much  so  :  to  say  nothing  of  Mrs.  Skewton,  whose 
peculiar  demonstrations  of  delight  had  become  very  frequent 
indeed:  the  carriage  was  again  put  in  requisition,  and  they  rode 
to  several  admired  points  of  view  in  the  neighborhood.  Mr. 
Dombey  ceremoniously  observed  of  one  of  these,  that  a  sketch, 
however  slight,  from  the  fair  hand  of  Mrs.  Granger,  would  be  a 
remembrance  to  him  of  that  agreeable  day :  though  he  wanted 
no  artificial  remembrance,  he  was  sure  (here  Mr.  Dombey  made 
another  of  his  bows),  which  he  must  always  highly  value. 
Withers  the  lean  having  Edith's  sketch-book  under  his  arm, 
was  immediately  called  upon  by  Mrs.  Skewton  to  produce 
the  same  :  and  the  carriage  stopped,  that  Edith  might  make  the 
drawing,  which  Mr.  Dombey  was  to  put  away  among  his  treas- 
ures. 

"  But  I  am  afraid  I  trouble  you  too  much,"  said  Mr. 
Dombey. 

"  By  no  means.  Where  would  you  wish  it  taken  from  t " 
she  answered,  turning  to  him  with  the  same  enforced  attention 
as  before, 

Mr.  Dombey,  with  another  bow,  which  cracked  the  starch 
in  his  cravat,  would  beg  to  leave  that  to  the  Artist. 

"  I  would  rather  you  chose  for  yourself,"  said  Edith. 

"Suppose  then,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "we  say  from  here. 
It  appears  a  good  spot  for  the  purpose,  or — Carker,  what  do  jou 
think  ? " 

There  happened  to  be  in  the  foreground,  at  some  little  dis- 
tance, a  grove  of  trees,  not  unlike  that  in  which  Mr  Carker  had 
made  his  ghain  of  footsteps  in  the  morning,  and  with  a  seat 


370  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

under  one  tree,  greatly  resembling,  in  the  general  character  ch. 
its  situation,  the  point  where  his  chain  had  broken. 

"  Might  I  venture  to  suggest  to  Mrs.  Granger,"  said  Car- 
ker,  "  that  that  is  an  interesting — almost  a  curious — point  of 
view  ? " 

She  followed  the  direction  of  his  riding-whip  with  her  eyes, 
Sand  raised  them  quickly  to  his  face.  It  was  the  second  glance 
'they  had  exchanged  since  their  introduction  ;  and  would  have 
been  exactly  like  the  first,  but  that  its  expression  was  plainer. 

"  Will  you  like  that?  "  said  Edith  to  Mr.  Donibey. 

"  I  shall  be  charmed,"  said  Mr.  Dombey  to  Edith. 

Therefore  the  carriage  was  driven  to  the  spot  where  Mr. 
Dombey  was  to  be  charmed  ;  and  Edith,  without  moving  from 
her  seat,  and  opening  her  sketch-book  with  her  usual  proud  in- 
difference, began  to  sketch. 

"  My  pencils  are  all  pointless,"  she  said,  stopping  and  turn- 
ing them  over. 

"  Pray  allow  me,"  said  Mr.  Dombey.  "Or  Carker  will  do 
it  better,  as  he  understands  these  things.  Carker,  have  the 
goodness  to  see  to  these  pencils  for  Mrs.  Granger." 

Mr.  Carker  rode  up  close  to  the  carriage-door  on  Mrs, 
Granger's  side,  and  letting  the  rein  fall  on  his  horse's  neck, 
took  the  pencils  from  her  hand  with  a  smile  and  a  bow,  and  sat 
in  the  saddle  leisurely  mending  them.  Having  done  so,  he 
begged  to  be  allowed  to  hold  them,  and  to  hand  them  to  her 
as  they  were  required  ;  and  thus  Mr.  Carker,  with  many  com- 
mendations of  Mrs.  Granger's  extraordinary  skill — especially  in 
trees — remained  close  at  her  side,  looking  over  the  drawing  as 
she  made  it.  Mr.  Dombey  in  the  mean  time  stood  bolt  upright 
in  the  carriage  like  a  highly  respectable  ghost,  looking  on  too  \ 
while  Cleopatra  and  the  Major  dallied  as  two  ancient  doves 
might  do. 

"Are  you  satisfied  with  that,  or  shall  I  finish  it  a  little 
more  .? "  said  Edith,  showing  the  sketch  to  Mr.  Dombey. 

Mr.  Dombey  begged  that  it  might  not  be  touched  ;  it  was 
perfection. 

"It  is  most  extraordinary,"  said  Carker,  bringing  every  one 
of  his  red  gums  to  bear  upon  his  praise.  "  I  was  not  prepared 
for  anything  so  beautiful,  and  so  unusual  altogether." 

This  might  have  applied  to  the  sketcher  no  less  than  to  the 
sketch  ;  but  Mr.  Carker's  manner  was  openness  itself — not  as 
to  his  mouth  alone,  but  as  to  his  whole  spirit.  So  it  continued 
to  be  while  the  drawing  was  laid  aside  for  Mr.  Dombey,  and 
while  th?  sketching  materials  were  put  up ;  then  he  handed  in 


DEEPER  SHADOWS.  3^^ 

the  pencils  (which  were  received  with  a  distant  acknowledg- 
ment of  his  help,  but  without  a  look),  and  tightening  his  rein, 
fell  back,  and  followed  the  carriage  again. 

Thinking,  perhaps,  as  he  rode,  that  even  this  trivial  sketch 
had  been  made  and  delivered  to  its  owner,  as  if  it  had  been 
bargained  for  ajid  bought.  Thinking,  perhaps,  that  although 
she  had  assented  with  such  perfect  readiness  to  his  request,  her 
haughty  face,  bent  over  the  drawing,  or  glancing  at  the  distant 
objects'  represented  in  it,  had  been  the  face  of  a  proud  woman, 
engaged  in  a  sordid  and  miserable  transaction.  Thinking,  per- 
haps, of  such  things :  but  smiling  certainly,  and  while  he  seem- 
ed to  look  about  him  freely,  in  enjoyment  of  the  air  and  exer- 
cise, keeping  always  that  sharp  corner  of  his  eye  upon  the 
carriage. 

A  stroll  among  the  haunted  ruins  of  Kenilworth,  and  more 
rides  to  more  points  of  view ;  most  of  which,  Mrs.  Skewton 
reminded  Mr.  Dombey,  Edith  had  already  sketched,  as  he  had 
seen  in  looking  over  her  drawings :  brought  the  day's  expedi- 
tion to  a  close.  Mrs.  Skewton  and  Edith  were  driven  to  their 
own  lodgings  ;  Mr.  Carker  was  graciously  invited  by  Cleopatra 
to  return  thither  with  Mr.  Dombey  and  the  Major,  in  the  even- 
ing, to  hear  some  of  Edith's  music  ;  and  the  three  gentlemen 
repaired  to  their  hotel  to  dinner. 

The  dinner  was  the  counterpart  of  yesterday's,  except  that 
the  Major  was  twenty-four  hours  more  triumphant  and  less 
mysterious.  Edith  was  toasted  again.  Mr.  Dombey  was  again 
agreeably  embarrassed.  And  Mr.  Carker  was  full  of  interest 
and  praise. 

There  were  no  other  visitors  at  Mrs.  Skewton's.  Edith's 
drawings  were  strewn  about  the  room,  a  little  more  abundantly 
than  usual  perhaps  ;  and  Withers,  the  wan  page,  handed  round 
a  little  stronger  tea.  The  harp  was  there  ;  the  piano  was  there  ; 
and  Edith  sang  and  played.  But  even  the  music  was  played 
by  Edith  to  Mr.  Dombey's  order,  as  it  were,  in  the  same  un- 
compromising way.     As  thus  : 

"  Edith,  my  dearest  love,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  half  an  hour 
after  tea,  "  Mr.  Dombey  is  dying  to  hear  you,  I  know." 

"  Mr.  Dombey  has  life  enough  left  to  say  so  for  himself, 
Mama,  I  have  no  doubt." 

"  I  shall  be  immensely  obliged,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  What  do  you  wish  ?  " 

"  Piano  ? "  hesitated  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  Whatever  you  please.     You  have  only  to  choose." 

Accordingly,  she  began  with  the  piano.     It  was  the   same 


jyg  DOMBEV  AXD  SON. 

with  tlie  harp  ;  the  same  with  her  singing  ;  the  same  with  he? 
selection  of  the  pieces  that  she  sang  and  played.  Such  frigid 
and  constrained,  yet  prompt  and  pointed  acquiescence  with  the 
wishes  he  imposed  upon  her,  and  on  no  one  else,  was  suffi- 
ciently remarkable  to  penetrate  througii  all  the  mysteries  oC 
picquet,  and  impress  itself  on  Mr.  Carker's  keen  attention. 
Nor  did  he  lose  sight  of  the  fact  that  Mr.  Dombey  was  evi- 
dently proud  of  his  power,  and  liked  to  show  it. 

Nevertheless,  Mr.  Carker  played  so  well — some  games  with 
the  Major,  and  some  with  Cleopatra,  whose  vigilance  of  eye  in 
respect  of  Mr.  Dombey  and  Edith  no  lynx  could  have  surpassed 
— that  he  even  heightened  his  position  in  the  lady-mother's 
good  graces  ;  and  when  on  taking  leave  he  regretted  that  he 
would  be  obliged  to  return  to  London  next  mo»'ning,  Cleopatra 
trusted  :  community  of  feeling  not  being  met  with  every  day  r 
that  it  was  far  from  being  the  last  time  they  would  meet. 

"  I  hope  so,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  with  an  expressive  look  at 
the  couple  in  the  distance,  as  he  drew  towards  the  door,  follow- 
ing the  Major.     "  I  think  so." 

Mr.  Dombey,  who  had  taken  a  stately  leave  of  Edith,  bent, 
or  made  some  approach  to  a  bend,  over  Cleopatra's  couch,  and 
said  in  a  low  voice  : 

"  I  have  requested  Mrs.  Granger's  permission  to  call  on  hei 
to-morrow  morning — for  a  purpose — and  she  has  appointed 
twelve  o'clock.  May  I  hope  to  have  the  pleasure  of  finding 
you  at  home.  Madam,  afterwards  ?  " 

Cleopatra  was  so  much  fluttered  and  moved,  by  hearing 
this,  of  course,  incomprehensible  speech,  that  she  could  only 
shut  her  eyes,  and  shake  her  head,  and  give  Mr.  Dombey  her 
hand  ;  which  Mr.  Dombey,  not  exactly  knowing  what  to  do 
with,  dropped. 

"  Dombey,  come  along  !  "  cried  the  Major,  looking  in  at  the 
door.  "  Damme,  Sir,  Joe  has  a  great  mind  to  propose  an  alter- 
ation in  the  name  of  the  Royal  Hotel,  and  that  it  should  be 
called  the  Three  Jolly  Ijachelors,  in  honor  of  ourselves  and 
Carker."  With  this  the  Major  slapped  Mr.  Dombey  on  the 
back,  and  winking  over  his  shoulder  at  the  ladies,  with  a  fright- 
ful tendency  of  blood  to  the  head,  carried  him  olT. 

Mrs.  Skewton  reposed  on  her  sofa,  and  Edith  sat  apart,  by 
her  harp,  in  silence  The  mother,  trilling  with  her  fan,  looked 
stealthily  at  the  daughter  more  than  once,  but  the  daughter, 
brooding  gloomily  with  downcast  eyes,  was  not  to  be  disturbed. 

Thus  they  remained  for  a  long  hour,  without  a  word,  unlij 
Mrs.  Skewton's  maid  appeared,  according  to  custom,  to  per- 


DEEPER  SHADOWS. 


379 


pare  her  gradually  for  night.  At  night,  she  should  have  been 
a  skeleton,  with  dart  and  hour-glass,  rather  than  a  woman,  this 
attendant ;  for  her  touch  was  as  the  touch  of  Death.  The 
painted  object  shrivelled  underneath  her  hand ;  the  form  col- 
lapsed, the  hair  dropped  off,  the  arched  dark  eyebrows  changed 
to  scanty  tufts  of  gray  ;  the  pale  lips  shrunk,  the  skin  became 
cadaverous  and  loose  ;  an  old,  worn,  yellow  nodding  woman, 
with  red  eyes,  alone  remained  in  Cleopatra's  place,  huddled 
up,  like  a  slovenly  bundle,  in  a  greasy  flannel  gown. 

The  very  voice  was  changed,  as  it  addressed  Edith,  when 
they  were  alone  again. 

"Why  don't  you  tell  me,"  it  said,  sharply,  "  that  he  is  com- 
ing here  to-morrow  by  appointment  ?  " 

"  Because  you  know  it,"  returned  Edith,  "  Mother." 

The  mocking  emphasis  she  laid  on  that  one  word  ! 

"  You  know  he  has  bought  me,"  she  resumed.  "  Or  that 
he  will,  to-morrow.  He  has  considered  of  his  bargain  ;  he  has 
shown  it  to  his  friend  ;  he  is  even  rather  proud  of  it ;  he  thinks 
that  it  will  suit  him,  and  may  be  had  sufficiently  cheap  ;  and  he 
will  buy  to-morrow.  God,  that  I  have  lived  for  this,  and  that  I 
feel  it ! " 

Compress  into  one  handsome  face  the  conscious  self-abase- 
ment, and  the  burning  indignation  of  a  hundred  women,  strong 
in  passion  and  in  pride  ;  and  there  it  hid  itself  with  two  white 
shuddering  arms. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? "  returned  the  angry  mother. 
"  Haven't  you  from  a  child — " 

"A  child!"  said  Edith,  looking  at  her,  "when  was  I  a 
child  !  What  childhood  did  you  ever  leave  to  me  ?  I  was  a 
woman — artful,  designing,  mercenary,  laying  snares  for  men — 
before  I  knew  myself,  or  you,  or  even  understood  the  base  and 
wretched  aim  of  every  new  display  1  learnt.  You  gave  birth 
to  a  woman.     Look  upon  her.     She  is  in  her  pride  to-night." 

And  as  she  spoke,  she  struck  her  hand  upon  her  beautiful 
bosom,  as  though  she  would  have  beaten  down  herself. 

"  Look  at  me,"  she  said,  "who  have  never  known  what  it  is 
to  have  an  honest  heart,  and  love.  Look  at  me,  taught  to 
scheme  and  plot  when  children  play  ;  and  married  in  my  youth 
— an  old  age  of  design — to  one  for  whom  I  had  no  feeling  but 
indifference.  Look  at  me,  whom  he  left  a  widow,  dying  before 
his  inheritance  descended  to  him — a  judgment  on  you  !  well 
deserved  ! — and  tell  me  what  has  been  my  life  for  ten  years 
since." 

"  We  have  been  making  every  effort  to  endeavor  to  secure 


jgo  DOMBEY  AND  SOX. 

to  you  a  good  estalilishment,"  rejoined  her  mother.  "  That  has 
been  your  life.     And  now  you  have  got  it." 

"  There  is  no  slave  in  a  market :  there  is  no  horse  in  a  fair : 
so  shown  and  offered  and  examined  and  paraded,  Mother,  as  I 
have  been,  for  ten  shameful  years,"  cried  Edith,  with  a  burning 
brow,  and  the  same  bitter  emphasis  on  the  one  word.  "Is  it 
not  so  ?  Have  I  been  made  the  byeword  of  all  kinds  of  men  ? 
Have  fools,  have  profligates,  have  boys,  have  dotards,  dangled 
after  me,  and  one  by  one  rejected  me,  and  fallen  ofif,  because 
you  were  too  plain  with  all  your  cunning  :  yes,  and  too  true, 
with  all  those  false  pretences  :  until  we  have  almost  come  to  be 
notorious?  The  license  of  look  and  touch,"  she  said,  with 
flashing  eyes,  "  have  I  submitted  to  it,  in  half  the  places  of  re- 
sort upon  the  map  of  England.  Have  I  been  hawked  and 
vended  here  and  there,  until  the  last  grain  of  self-respect  is 
dead  within  me,  and  I  loathe  myself  ?  Has  this  been  my  late 
childhood  ?  I  had  none  before.  Do  not  tell  me  that  I  had, 
to-night,  of  all  nights  in  my  life  !  " 

"You  might  have  been  well  married,"  said  her  mother, 
"  twenty  times  at  least,  Edith,  if  you  had  given  encouragement 
enough." 

"  No  !  Who  takes  me,  refuse  that  I  am,  and  as  I  well  de- 
serve to  be,"  she  answered,  raising  her  head,  and  trembling  in 
her  energy  of  shame  and  stormy  pride,  "  shall  take  me,  as  this 
man  does,  with  no  art  of  mine  put  forth  to  lure  him.  He  sees 
me  at  the  auction,  and  he  thinks  it  well  to  buy  me.  Let  him  ' 
When  he  came  to  view  me — perhaps  to  bid — he  required  to  see 
the  roll  of  my  accomplishments.  I  gave  it  to  him.  When  he 
would  have  me  show  one  of  them,  to  justify  his  purchase  to  his 
men,  I  require  of  him  to  say  which  he  demands,  and  I  exhibit 
it.  I  will  do  no  more.  He  makes  the  purchase  of  his  own 
will,  and  with  his  own  sense  of  its  worth,  and  the  power  of  his 
money  ;  and  I  hope  it  may  never  disappoint  him.  /  have  not 
vaunted  and  pressed  the  bargain  ;  neither  have  you,  so  far  as  I 
have  been  able  to  prevent  you." 

"  You  talk  strangely  to  night,  Edith,  to  your  own  mother." 

"  It  seems  so  to  me  ;  stranger  to  me  than  you,"  said  Edith. 
"  But  my  education  was  completed  long  ago.  I  am  too  old 
now,  and  have  fallen  too  low,  by  degrees,  to  take  a  new  course, 
and  to  stop  yours,  and  to  help  myself.  The  germ  of  ail  that 
purifies  a  woman's  breast,  and  makes  it  true  and  good,  has 
never  stirred  in  mine,  and  I  have  nothing  else  to  sustain  me 
when  I  despise  myself."  There  had  been  a  touching  sadness 
in  her  voice,  but  it  was  gone,  when  she  went  on  to  say,  with  9 


AL  TEN  A  TIO.VS.  381 

curled  lip,  "  So,  as  we  are  genteel  and  poor,  I  am  conten*;  that 
we  should  be  made  rich  by  these  means  ;  all  I  say,  is,  I  have 
kept  the  only  purpose  I  have  had  the  strength  to  form  —  I 
had  almost  said  the  power,  with  you  at  my  side,  Mother — and 
have  not  tempted  this  man  on." 

"  This  man  !  You  speak,"  said  her  mother,  "  as  if  you 
hated  him." 

"  And  you  thought  I  loved  him,  did  you  not  ?  "  she  answered, 
stopping  on  her  way  across  the  room,  and  looking  round, 
"  Shall  I  tell  you,"  she  continued,  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  her 
mother,  "  who  already  knows  us  thoroughly,  and  reads  us  right, 
and  before  whom  I  have  even  less  of  self-respect  or  confidence 
than  before  my  own  inward  self ;  being  so  much  degraded  by 
his  knowledge  of  me  .''  " 

"  This  is  an  attack,  I  suppose,"  returned  her  mother  coldly, 
"  on  poor,  unfortunate  what's-his-name — Mr.  Carker  !  Your 
want  of  self-respect  and  confidence,  my  dear,  in  reference  to 
that  person  (who  is  very  agreeable,  it  strikes  me),  is  not  likely 
to  have  much  effect  on  your  establishment.  Why  do  you  look 
at  me  so  hard  ?     Are  you  ill  ?  " 

Edith  suddenly  let  fall  her  face,  as  if  it  had  been  stung,  and 
while  she  pressed  her  hands  upon  it,  a  terrible  tremble  crept 
over  her  whole  frame.  It  was  quickly  gone  ;  and  with  her  usual 
step,  she  passed  out  of  the  room. 

The  maid  who  should  have  been  a  skeleton,  then  re- 
appeared, and  giving  one  arm  to  her  mistress,  who  appeared  to 
have  taken  off  her  manner  with  her  charms,  and  to  have  put  on 
paralysis  with  her  flannel  gown,  collected  the  ashes  of  Cleo- 
patra, and  carried  them  away  in  the  other,  ready  for  to-morrow's 
revivification. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

ALTERATIONS. 


"  So  the  day  has  come  at  length,  Susan,"  said  Florence  to 
the  excellent  Nipper,  "  when  we  are  going  back  to  our  quiet 
home  !  " 

Susan  drew  in  her  breath  with  an  amount  of  expression  not 
easily  described,  and  further  relieving  her  feelings  with  a  smart 
cough,  answered,  "Very  quiet  indeed.  Miss  FloV;  no  cloubt.: 
Exqessjive  ^o," 


382  DOiMBEY  AXD  SON. 

"When  I  was  a  child,"  said  Florence,  thoughtfully,  ivi(? 
after  musing  for  some  moments,  "  did  you  ever  see  that  gentle- 
man who  has  taken  the  trouble  to  ride  down  here  to  speak  to 
me,  now  three  times — three  times,  1  think,  Susan  ?" 

"Three  times,  Miss,"  returned  the  Nipper.  "Once  when 
you  was  out  a  walking  with  them  Sket — " 

Florence  gently  looked  at  her,  and  Miss  Nipper  checked 
herself. 

"  With  Sir  Barnet  and  his  lady,  I  mean  to  say.  Miss,  and 
the  young  gentleman.     And  two  evenings  since  then." 

"  When  I  was  a  child,  and  when  company  used  to  come  to 
visit  Papa,  did  you  ever  see  that  gentleman  at  home,  Susan  ? " 
asked  Florence. 

"Well,  Miss,"  returned  her  maid,  after  considering,  "I 
really  couldn't  say  I  ever  did.  When  your  poor  dear  Ma  died, 
Miss  Floy,  I  was  very  new  in  the  family^,  you  see,  and  my  ele- 
ment :  "  the  Nipper  bridled,  as  opining  that  her  merits  had 
been  always  designedly  extinguished  by  Mr.  Dombey  :  "was 
the  floor  below  the  attics." 

"  To  be  sure,"  said  Florence,  still  thoughtfully  ;  "  you  are 
not  likely  to  have  known  who  came  to  the  house.  I  quite 
forgot." 

"  Not,  Miss,  but  what  we  talked  about  the  family  and 
visitors,"  said  Susan,  "  and  but  what  I  heard  much  said, 
although  the  nurse  before  Mrs.  Richards  did  make  unpleasant 
remarks  when  I  was  in  company,  and  hint  at  little  Pitchers,  but 
that  could  only  be  attributed,  poor  thing,"  observed  Susan, 
with  composed  forbearance,  "  to  habits  of  intoxication,  for 
which  she  was  required  to  leave,  and  did." 

Florence,  who  was  seated  at  her  chamber  window,  with  her 
face  resting  on  her  hand,  sat  looking  out,  and  hardly  seemed 
to  hear  what  Susan  said,  she  was  so  lost  in  thought. 

"At  all  events.  Miss,"  said  Susan,  "I  remember  very  well 
that  this  same  gentleman,  Mr.  Carker,  was  almost,  if  not  quite, 
as  great  a  gentleman  with  your  Papa  then,  as  he  is  now.  It 
used  to  be  said  in  the  house  then.  Miss,  that  he  was  at  the 
head  of  all  your  Pa's  affairs  in  the  City,  and  managed  the 
whole,  and  that  your  Pa  minded  him  more  than  anybody,  which, 
begging  your  pardon,  Miss  Floy,  he  might  easy  do,  for  he 
never  minded  anybody  else.  I  knew  that.  Pitcher  as  I  might 
have  been." 

Susan  Nipper,  with  an  injured  remembrance  of  the  nurse 
before  Mrs.  Richards,  emphasized  '  Pitcher'  strongly. 

**  And  that  Mr.  Carker  has  not  fallen  ofT,  Miss,"  she  pursued, 


ALTERATIONS.  383 

"  but  lias  stood  his  ground,  and  kept  his  credit  with  your  Pa, 
I  know  from  what  is  always  said  among  our  people  by  that 
J^erch,  whenever  he  comes  to  the  house  ;  and  though  he's  the 
weakest  weed  in  the  world,  Miss  Floy,  and  no  one  can  have  a 
moment's  patience  with  the  man,  he  knows  what  goes  on  in  the 
City  tolerable  well,  and  says  that  your  Pa  does  nothing  without 
Mr.  Carker,  and  leaves  all  to  Mr.  Carker,  and  acts  according 
to  Mr.  Carker,  and  has  Mr.  Carker  always  at  his  ell)ow,  and  I 
do  believe  that  he  believes  (that  washiest  of  Perches  !)  that 
after  your  Pa,  the  Emperor  of  India  is  the  child  unborn  to  Mr. 
Carker." 

Not  a  word  of  this  was  lost  on  Florence,  who,  with  an 
awakened  interest  in  Susan's  speech,  no  longer  gazed  abstract- 
edly on  the  prospect  without,  but  looked  at  her,  and  listened 
with  attention. 

"  Yes,  Susan,"  she  said,  when  that  young  lady  had  con- 
cluded. "  He  is  in  Papa's  confidence,  and  is  his  friend,  I  am 
sure." 

Florence's  mind  ran  high  on  this  theme,  and  had  done  for 
some  days.  Mr.  Carker,  in  the  two  visits  with  which  he  had 
followed  up  his  first  one,  had  assumed  a  confidence  between 
himself  and  her — a  right  on  his  part  to  be  mysterious  and 
stealthy,  in  telling  her  that  the  ship  was  still  unheard  of — a 
kind  of  mildly  restrained  power  and  authority  over  her — that 
made  her  wonder,  and  caused  her  great  uneasiness.  She  had 
no  means  of  repelling  it,  or  of  freeing  herself  from  the  web  he 
was  gradually  winding  about  her;  for  that  would  have  required 
some  art  and  knowledge  of  the  world,  opposed  to  such  address 
as  his  :  and  Florence  had  none.  True,  he  had  said  no  more 
to  her  than  that  there  was  no  news  of  the  ship,  and  that  he 
feared  the  worst ;  but  how  he  came  to  know  that  she  was  inter- 
ested in  the  ship,  and  why  he  had  the  right  to  signify  his 
knowledge  to  her,  so  insidiously  and  darkly,  troubled  Florence 
very  much. 

This  conduct  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Carker,  and  her  habit  of 
often  considering  it  with  wonder  and  uneasiness,  began  to  invest 
him  with  an  uncomfortable  fascination  in  Florence's  thoughts. 
A  more  distinct  rememorance  of  his  features,  voice,  and  man- 
ner :  which  she  sometimes  courted,  as  a  means  of  reducing  him 
to  the  level  of  a  real  personage,  capable  of  exerting  no  greater 
charm  over  her  than  another :  did  not  remove  the  vague  im- 
pression. And  yet  he  never  frowned,  or  looked  upon  her  with 
an  air  of  dislike  or  animosjt^,  but  was  always  smiling  and 
*eren§. 


,84  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

Again,  Florence,  in  pursuit  of  her  strong  purpose  with 
reference  to  her  father,  and  her  steady  resolution  to  believe 
that  she  was  herself  unwittingly  to  blame  for  their  so  cold  and 
distant  relations,  would  recall  to  mind  that  this  gentleman  was 
his  confidential  friend,  and  would  think,  with  an  anxious  heart, 
could  her  struggling  tendency  to  dislike  and  fear  him  be  a  part 
of  that  misfortune  in  her,  which  had  turned  her  father's  love 
adrift,  and  left  her  so  alone  ?  She  dreaded  that  it  might  be  ; 
sometimes  believed  it  was :  then  she  resolved  that  she  would 
try  to  conquer  this  wrong  feeling  ;  persuaded  herself  that  she 
was  honored  and  encouraged  by  the  notice  of  her  father's 
friend ;  and  hoped  that  patient  observation  of  him  and  trust  in 
him  would  lead  her  bleeding  feet  along  that  stony  road  which 
ended  in  her  father's  heart. 

Thus,  with  no  one  to  advise  her — for  she  could  advise  with 
no  one  without  seeming  to  complain  against  him  —  gentle 
Florence  tossed  on  an  uneasy  sea  of  doubt  and  hope ;  and  Mr. 
Carker,  like  a  scaly  monster  of  the  deep,  swam  down  below, 
and  kept  his  shining  eye  upon  her. 

Florence  had  a  new  reason  in  all  this  for  wishing  to  be  at 
home  again.  Her  lonely  life  was  better  suited  to  her  course  of 
timid  hope  and  doubt ;  and  she  feared  sometimes,  that  in  her 
absence  she  might  miss  some  hopeful  chance  of  testifying  hel 
affection  for  her  father.  Heaven  knows,  she  might  have  set 
her  mind  at  rest,  poor  child  !  on  this  last  point  ;  but  her  slighted 
love  was  fluttering  within  her,  and,  even  in  her  sleep,  it  flew 
aiway  in  dreams,  and  nestled,  like  a  wandering  bird  come  home, 
upon  her  father's  neck. 

Of  Walter  she  thought  often.  Ah  !  how  often,  when  the 
night  was  gloomy,  and  the  wind  was  blowing  round  the  house ! 
But  hope  was  strong  in  her  breast.  It  is  so  difficult  for  the 
young  and  ardent,  even  with  such  experience  as  hers,  to  imagine 
youth  and  ardor  quenched  like  a  weak  flame,  and  the  bright 
day  of  life  merging  into  night,  at  noon,  that  hope  was  strong 
yet.  Her  tears  fell  frequently  for  Walter's  sufferings  ;  but 
rarely  for  his  supposed  death,  and  never  long. 

She  had  written  to  the  old  Instnmient-maker,  but  had  re- 
ceived no  answer  to  her  note  :  which  indeed  required  none. 
Thus  matters  stood  with  Florence  on  the  morning  when  she 
was  going  home,  gladly,  to  her  old  secluded  life. 

Doctor  and  Mrs.  r.limbcr,  accompanied  (much  against  his 
will)  by  their  valued  charge.  Master  Karnet,  were  already  gone 
back  to  Brighton,  where  that  young  gentleman  and  his  fellow 
pilgrims  to  Parnassus  were  then-  no  doubt,  in  the  continuaJ 


ALTERATIONS.  385 

resumption  of  their  studies.  The  holiday  time  was  past  and 
over  ;  most  of  the  juvenile  guests  at  the  villa  had  taken  their 
departure  ;  and  Florence's  long  visit  was  come  to  an  end. 

There  was  one  guest,  however,  albeit  not  resident  within  the 
house,  who  had  been  very  constant  in  his  attention  to  the 
family,  and  who  still  remained  devoted  to  them.  This  was  Mr. 
Toots,  who  after  renewing,  some  weeks  ago,  the  acquaintance 
he  had  had  the  happiness  of  forming  with  Skettles  Junior,  on 
the  night  when  he  burst  the  Blimberian  bonds  and  soared  into 
freedom  with  his  ring  on,  called  regularly  every  other  day,  and 
left  a  perfect  pack  of  cards  at  the  hall-door  ;  so  many  indeed, 
that  the  ceremony  was  quite  a  deal  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Toots, 
and  a  hand  at  whist  on  the  part  of  the  servant. 

Mr.  Toots,  likewise,  with  the  bold  and  happy  idea  of  pre- 
venting the  family  from  forgetting  him  (but  there  is  reason  to 
suppose  that  this  expedient  originated  in  the  teeming  brain  of 
the  Chicken),  had  established  a  six-oared  cutter,  manned  by 
aquatic  friends  of  the  Chicken's  and  steered  by  that  illustrious 
character  in  person,  who  wore  a  bright  red  fireman's  coat  for 
the  purpose,  and  concealed  the  perpetual  black  eye  with  which 
he  was  afiQicted,  beneath  a  green  shade.  Previous  to  the  in- 
stitution of  this  equipage,  Mr.  Toots  sounded  the  Chicken  on 
a  hypothetical  case,  as  supposing  the  Chicken  to  he  enamored 
of  a  young  lady  named  Mary,  and  to  have  conceived  the  inten- 
tion of  starting  a  boat  of  his  own,  what  would  he  call  that  boat  ? 
The  Chicken  replied,  with  divers  strong  asseverations,  that  he 
would  either  christen  it  Poll  or  The  Chicken's  Delight.  Im- 
proving on  this  idea,  Mr.  Toots,  after  deep  study  and  the 
exercise  of  much  invention,  resolved  to  call  his  boat  The 
Toot's  Joy,  as  a  delicate  compliment  to  Florence,  of  which  no 
man  knowing  the  parties,  could  possibly  miss  the  appreciation. 

Stretched  on  a  crimson  cushion  in  his  gallant  bark,  with  his 
shoes  in  the  air,  Mr.  Toots,  in  the  exercise  of  his  project,  had 
come  up  the  river,  day  after  day,  and  week  after  week,  and  had 
flitted  to  and  fro,  near  Sir  Barnet's  garden,  and  had  caused  his 
crew  to  cut  across  and  across  the  river  at  sharp  angles,  for  his 
better  exhibition  to  any  lookers-out  from  Sir  Earnet's  windows, 
and  had  had  such  evolutions  performed  by  the  Toot's  Joy  as 
had  filled  all  the  neighboring  part  of  the  water-side  with  as- 
tonishment. But  whenever  he  saw  any  one  in  Sir  Barnet's 
garden  on  the  brink  of  the  river,  Mr.  Toots  always  feigned  to 
be  passing  there,  by  a  combination  of  coincidences  of  the  most 
singular  and  unlikely  description. 

"  How  are  you,  Toots  ? "  Sir  Barnet  would  say,  waving  his 


j85  DOM B FA'  AiVD  SOJ\^. 

hand  from  the  lawn,  while  the  artful  Chicken  steered  close  In 
shore. 

"  How  de  do,  Sir  Barnet  ? "  Mr,  Toots  would  answer. 
"  What  a  surprising  thing  that  I  should  see  you  here  !  '* 

Mr.  Toots,  in  his  sagacity,  always  said  this,  as  if,  instead  of 
that  being  Sir  Barnet's  house,  it  were  some  deserted  edifice  o 
the  banks  of  the  Nile,  or  Ganges. 

"I  never  was  so  surprised!"  Mr.  Toots  would  exclaim.-- 
"  Is  Miss  Dombey  there  ?  " 

Whereupon  Florence  would  appear,  perhaps. 

"  Oh,  Diogenes  is  quite  well,  Miss  Dombey,"  Mr.  Toots 
would  cry.     "  I  called  to  ask  this  morning." 

"  Thank  you  very  much  !  "  the  pleasant  voice  of  Florence 
would  reply. 

"  Won't  you  come  ashore,  Toots  ? "  Sir  Barnet  would  say 
then.     "  Come  !  you're  in  no  hurr3\     Come  and  see  us." 

"  Oh  it's  of  no  consequence,  thank  you !  "  Mr.  Toots  would 
blushingly  rejoin.  "  I  thought  Miss  Dombey  might  like  to 
know,  that's  all.  Good-by !  "  And  poor  Mr.  Toots,  who  was 
dying  to  accept  the  invitation,  but  hadn't  the  courage  to  do  il^ 
signed  to  the  Chicken,  with  an  aching  heart,  and  away  went 
the  Joy,  cleaving  the  water  like  an  arrow. 

The  Joy  was  lying  in  a  state  of  extraordinary  splendor,  at 
the  garden  steps,  on  the  morning  of  Florence's  departure. 
When  she  went  down  stairs  to  take  leave  after  her  talk  with 
Susan,  she  found  Mr.  Toots  awaiting  her  in  the  drawing-room. 

"  Oh,  how  de  do.  Miss  Dombey  'i  "  said  the  stricken  Toots, 
always  dreadfully  disconcerted  when  the  desire  of  his  heart  was 
gained,  and  he  was  speaking  to  her  ;  "  thank  you,  I'm  very  well 
indeed,  I  hope  you're  the  same,  so  was  Diogenes  yesterday." 

"You  are  very  kind,"  said  Florence. 

*'  Thank  you,  it's  of  no  consequence,"  retorted  Mr.  Toots. 
"  I  thought  perhaps  you  wouldn't  mind,  in  this  fine  weather, 
coming  home  by  water,  Miss  Dombey.  There's  plenty  of  room 
in  the  boat  for  your  maid." 

"  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you,"  said  Florence,  hesitating. 
*'  I  really  am — but  I  would  rather  not." 

"  Oh,  it's  of  no  consequence,"  retorted  Mr.  Toots.  "  Good- 
morning  ! " 

"  Won't  you  wait  and  see  Lady  Skettles  ?  "  asked  Florences, 
kindly. 

"  Oh  no,  thank  you,"  returned  Mr.  Toots,  "  it's  of  no  coiv 
sequence  at  all." 

So  shy  was  Mr.  Toots  on  such  occasions,  and  so  flurried  1 


ALTERATIONS.  387 

But  Lady  Skettles  entering  at  the  moment,  Mr.  Toots  was 
suddenly  seized  witli  a  passion  for  asking  her  how  she  did,  and 
hoping  she  was  very  well ;  nor  could  Mr.  Toots  by  any  possi- 
bility leave  off  shaking  hands  with  her,  until  Sir  Barnet  ap 
peared  :  to  whom  he  immediately  clung  with  the  tenacity  ot 
desperation. 

"We  are  losing,  to-day,  Toots,"  said  Sir  Barnet,  turning 
towards  Florence,  "the  light  of  our  house,  I  assure  you." 

"Oh,  it's  of  not  conseq I  mean  yes,  to  be  sure,"  faltered 

the  embarrassed  Toots.     "  GooD-morning  !  " 

Notwithstanding  the  emphatic  nature  of  this  farewell,  Mr. 
Toots,  instead  of  going  away,  stood  leering  about  him,  vacantly. 
Florence,  to  relieve  him,  bade  adieu,  with  many  thanks,  to  Lady 
Skettles,  and  gave  her  arm  to  Sir  Barnet. 

"  May  I  beg  of  you,  my  dear  Miss  Dombey,"  said  her  host, 
as  he  conducted  her  to  the  carriage,  "  to  present  my  best  com- 
pliments to  your  dear  Papa  ?  " 

It  was  distressing  to  Florence  to  receive  the  commission, 
for  she  felt  as  if  she  were  imposing  on  Sir  Barnet,  by  allowing 
him  to  believe  that  a  kindness  rendered  to  her,  was  rendered  to 
her  father.  As  she  could  not  explain,  however,  she  bowed  her 
head  and  thanked  him ;  and  again  she  thought  that  the  dull 
home,  free  from  such  embarrassments,  and  such  reminders  of 
her  sorrow,  was  her  natural  and  best  retreat. 

Such  of  her  late  friends  and  companions  as  were  yet  remain- 
ing at  the  villa,  came  running  from  within,  and  from  the  garden 
to  say  good-by.  They  were  all  attached  to  her,  and  very 
earnest  in  taking  leave  of  her.  Even  the  household  were  sorry 
for  her  going,  and  the  servants  came  nodding  and  curtseying 
round  the  carriage  door.  As  Florence  looked  round  on  the 
kind  faces,  and  saw  among  them  those  of  Sir  Barnet  and  his 
lady,  and  of  Mr.  Toots,  who  was  chuckling  and  staring  at  her 
from  a  distance,  she  was  reminded  of  the  night  when  Paul  and 
she  had  come  from  Doctor  Blimber's  :  and  when  the  carriage 
dibve  away,  her  face  was  wet  with  tears. 

Sorrowful  tears,  but  tears  of  consolation,  too ;  for  all  the 
softer  memories  connected  with  the  dull  old  house  to  which  she 
was  returning  made  it  dear  to  her,  as  they  rose  up.  How  long 
it  seemed  since  she  had  wandered  through  the  silent  rooms : 
since  she  had  last  crept,  softly  and  afraid,  into  those  her  father 
occupied  :  since  she  had  felt  the  solemn  but  yet  soothing 
influence  of  the  beloved  dead  in  every  action  of  her  daily  life  ! 
This  new  farewell  reminded  her,  besides,  of  her  parting  with 
poor  Walter     of  his  looks   and  words  that  night  ;  and  of  the 


388  DOMHEY  AND  SOM. 

gracious  blending  she  had  noticed  in  him,  of  tenderness  for 
those  he  left  behind,  with  courage  and  high  spirit.  His  little 
history  was  associated  with  the  old  house  too,  and  gave  it  a 
new  claim  and  hold  upon  her  heart. 

Even  Susan  Nipper  softened  towards  the  home  of  so  many 
years,  as  they  were  on  their  way  towards  it.  Gloomy  as  it  was, 
and  rigid  justice  as  she  rendered  to  its  gloom,  she  forgave  it  a 
great  deal.  "  I  shall  be  glad  to  see  it  again,  I  don't  deny. 
Miss,"  said  the  Nipper.  "  There  ain't  much  in  it  to  boast  of, 
but  I  wouldn't  have  it  burnt  or  pulled  down  neither  !  " 

"  You'll  be  glad  to  go  through  the  old  rooms,  won't  you, 
Susan  ?  "  said  Florence,  smiling. 

"Well,  Miss,"  returned  the  Nipper,  softening  more  and 
more  towards  the  house,  as  they  approached  it  nearer,  "  I  won't 
deny  but  what  I  shall,  though  I  shall  hate  'em  again,  to-morrow, 
very  likely." 

Florence  felt  that,  for  her,  there  was  greater  peace  within  it 
than  elsewhere.  It  was  better  and  eaiser  to  keep  her  secret 
shut  up  there,  among  the  tall  dark  walls,  than  to  carry  it  abroad 
into  the  light,  and  try  to  hide  it  from  a  crowd  of  happy  eyes. 
Jt  was  better  to  pursue  the  study  of  her  loving  heart,  alone,  and 
find  no  new  discouragements  in  loving  hearts  about  her.  It 
was  easier  to  hope,  and  pray,  and  love  on,  all  uncared  for,  yet 
with  constancy  and  patience,  in  the  tranquil  sanctuary  of  such 
remembiances:  although  it  mouldered,  rusted,  and  decayed 
about  her:  than  in  a  new  scene,  let  its  gayetybe  what  it  would. 
She  welcomed  back  her  old  enchanted  dream  of  life,  and 
longed  for  the  old  dark  door  to  close  upon  her,  once  again. 

Full  of  such  thoughts,  they  turned  into  the  long  and  sombre 
street.  Florence  was  not  on  that  side  of  the  carriage  which 
was  nearest  to  her  home,  and  as  the  distance  lessened  between 
them  and  it,  she  looked  out  of  her  window  for  the  children 
over  the  waj" 

She  was  thus  engaged,  when  an  exclamation  from  Susan 
caused  her  to  turn  quickly  round. 

"  Why,  Gracious  me  !  "  cried  Susan,  breathless,  "  where's 
our  house  !  " 

"  Our  house !  "  said  Florence. 

Susan  drawing  in  her  head  from  the  window,  thrust  it  out 
again,  drew  it  in  again  as  the  carriage  stopped,  and  stared  at 
her  mistress  in  amazement. 

There  was  a  labyrinth  of  scaffolding  raised  all  round  the 
/louse  from  the  basement  to  the  roof.  Loads  of  bricks  and 
stones,  and  heaps  of  mortar,  and  piles  of  wood,  blocked  up  half 


A  L  TERA  TTONS.  ^gg 

the  width  and  length  of  the  broad  street  at  the  side.  Ladders 
were  raised  against  the  walls  :  laborers  were  climbing  up  and 
down  ;  men  were  at  work  upon  tlie  steps  of  the  scaffolding ; 
painters  and  decorators  were  busy  inside ;  great  rolls  of  orna- 
mental paper  were  being  delivered  from  a  cart  at  the  door ;  an 
upholsterer's  wagon  also  stopped  the  way  ;  no  furniture  was  to 
be  seen  through  the  gaping  and  broken  windows  in  any  of  the 
rooms  ;  nothing  but  workmen,  and  the  implements  of  their 
several  trades,  swarming  from  the  kitchens  to  the  garrets.  In- 
side and  outside  alike  :  bricklayers,  painters,  carpenters,  ma- 
sons :  hammer,  hod,  brush,  pickaxe,  saw,  and  trowel  :  all  at 
work  together,  in  full  chorus. 

Florence  descended  from  the  coach,  half  doubting  if  it  were 
or  could  be  the  right  house,  until  she  recognized  Towlinson, 
with  a  sun-burnt  face,  standing  at  the  door  to  receive  her. 

"  There  is  nothing  the  matter }  "  inquired  Florence. 

"  Oh  no.  Miss." 

"  There  are  great  alterations  going  on." 

"  Yes,  Miss,  great  alterations,"  said  Towlinson, 

Florence  passed  him  as  if  she  were  in  a  dream,  and  hurried 
up  stairs.  The  garish  light  was  in  the  long-darkened  drawing- 
room,  and  there  were  steps  and  platforms,  and  men  in  paper 
caps,  in  the  high  places.  Her  mother's  picture  was  gone  with 
the  rest  of  the  movables,  and  on  the  mark  where  it  had  been, 
was  scrawled  in  chalk,  "  this  room  in-panel.  Green  and  gold." 
The  staircase  was  a  labyrinth  of  posts  and  planks  like  the  out- 
side of  the  house,  and  a  whole  Olympus  of  plumbers  and  gla- 
ziers was  reclining  in  various  attitudes,  on  the  skylight.  Her 
own  room  was  not  yet  touched  within,  but  there  were  beams  and 
boards  raised  against  it  without,  baulking  the  daylight.  She 
went  up  swiftly  to  that  other  bedroom,  where  the  little  bed  was  ; 
and  a  dark  giant  of  a  man  with  a  pipe  in  his  mouth,  and  his 
head  tied  up  in  a  pocket-handkerchief,  was  staring  in  at  the 
window. 

It  was  here  that  Susan  Nipfier,  who  had  been  in  quest  of 
Florence,  found  her,  and  said,  would  she  go  down  stairs  to  her 
Papa,  who  wished  to  speak  to  her. 

"  At  home  !  and  wishing  to  speak  to  me  !  "  cried  Florence, 
trembling. 

Susan,  who  was  infinitely  more  distraught  than  Florence 
herself,  repeated  her  errand  ;  and  Florence,  pale  and  agitated, 
hurried  down  again,  without  a  moment's  hesitation.  She  thought 
upon  the  way  down,  would  she  dare  to  kiss  him }  The  longing 
qI  her  heart  resolved  her.  and  she  thought  she  would, 


390  DOMBEV  AND  SON. 

Her  father  might  have  heard  that  heart  beat,  when  it  camt 
into  his  presence.  One  instant,  and  it  would  have  beat  against 
his  breast — 

But  he  was  not  alone.  There  were  two  ladies  there  ;  and 
Florence  stopped.  Striving  so  hard  with  her  emotion,  that  if 
her  brute  friend  Di  had  not  burst  in  and  overwhelmed  her  with 
his  caresses  as  a  welcome  home — at  which  one  of  the  ladies 
gave  li  little  scream,  and  that  diverted  her  attention  from  her- 
self— she  would  have  swooned  upon  the  floor. 

*'  Florence,"  said  her  father,  putting  out  his  hand  :  so  stiffly 
that  it  held  her  off :  "  how  do  you  do  .-•  " 

Florence  took  the  hand  between  her  own,  and  putting  it 
timidly  to  her  lips,  yielded  to  its  withdrawal.  It  touched  the 
door  in  shutting  it,  with  quite  as  much  endearment  as  it  had 
touched  her. 

"  What  dog  is  that  ?  "  said  Mr.  Dombe}^,  displeased. 

"  It  is  a  dog,  papa — from  Brighton." 

"  Well ! "  said  Mr.  Dombey  ;  and  a  cloud  passed  over  his 
face,  for  he  understood  her. 

"He  is  very  good-tempered,"  said  Florence,  addressing  her- 
self with  her  natural  grace  and  sweetness  to  the  two  lady 
strangers.     "  He  is  only  glad  to  see  me.     Pray  forgive  him." 

She  saw  in  the  glance  they  interchanged,  that  the  lady  who 
had  screamed,  and  who  was  seated,  was  old  ;  and  that  the  other 
lady,  who  stood  near  her  Papa,  was  very  beautiful,  and  of  an 
elegant  figure. 

"  Mrs.  Skewton,"  said  her  father,  turning  to  the  first,  and 
holding  out  his  hand,  "  this  is  my  daughter  Florence." 

"  Charming,  I  am  sure,"  observed  the  lady,  putting  up  her 
glass.  "  So  natural !  My  darling  Florence,  you  must  kiss  me, 
if  you  please." 

Florence  having  done  so,  turned  towards  the  other  lady,  by 
whom  her  father  stood  waiting. 

"  Edith,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "  this  is  my  daughter  Florence. 
Florence,  this  lady  will  soon  be  your  Mama." 

PMorence  started,  and  looked  up  at  tiie  beautiful  face  in  a 
conflict  of  emotions,  among  which  the  tears  that  name  awakened 
struggled  for  a  moment  with  surprise,  interest,  admiration,  and 
an  indefinable  sort  of  fear.  Then  she  cried  out,  "  Oh  Papa, 
may  you  be  happy  !  may  you  be  very,  very  happy  all  your  life  !" 
and  then  fell  weeping  on  the  lady's  bosom. 

There  was  a  short  silence.  The  beautiful  lady,  who  at  first 
had  seemed  to  hesitate  whether  or  no  she  should  advance  to 
Florence,  held  her  lo  h^r  breast,  and  pressed  the  banc)  with 


A  L7-E  RATIONS. 


39« 


which  she  clasped  her,  close  about  her  waist,  as  if  to  reassure 
her  and  comfort  her.  Not  one  word  passed  the  lady's  lips.  She 
bent  her  head  down  over  Florence,  and  she  kissed  her  on  the 
cheek,  but  she  said  no  word. 

"  Shall  we  go  on  through  the  rooms,"  said  Mr.  Dombey, 
"  and  see  how  our  workmen  are  doing  ?  Pray  allow  me,  my 
dear  madam." 

He  said  this  in  offering  his  arm  to  Mrs.  Skewton,  who  had 
been  looking  at  Florence  through  her  glass,  as  though  pictur- 
ing to  herself  what  she  might  be  made,  by  the  infusion — from 
her  own  copious  storehouse,  no  doubt — of  a  little  more  Heart 
and  Nature.  Florence  was  still  sobbing  on  the  lady's  breast, 
and  holding  to  her,  when  Mr.  Dombey  was  heard  to  say  from 
the  Conservatory  : 

"  Let  us  ask  Edith.     Dear  me,  where  is  she  ?  " 

"  Edith,  my  dear  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Skewton,  "  where  are  you  ? 
Looking  for  Mr.  Dombey  somewhere,  I  know.  We  are  here, 
my  love." 

The  beautiful  lady  released  her  hold  of  Florence,  and  press- 
ing her  lips  once  more  upon  her  face,  withdrew  hurriedly,  and 
joined  them.  Florence  remained  standing  in  the  same  place  : 
happy,  sorry,  joyful,  and  in  tears,  she  knew  not  how  or  how 
long,  but  all  at  once  :  when  her  new  Mama  came  back,  and 
took  her  in  her  arms  again. 

"  Florence,"  said  the  lady,  hurriedly,  and  looking  into  her 
face  with  great  earnestness.  "  You  will  not  begin  by  hating 
me." 

"  By  hating  you,  Mama?  "  cried  Florence,  winding  her  arm 
round  her  neck,  and  returning  the  look. 

"  Hush  I  Begin  by  thinking  well  of  me,"  said  the  beautiful 
lady.  "  Begin  by  believing  that  I  will  try  to  make  you  happy, 
and  that  I  am  prepared  to  love  you,  Florence.  Good-by. 
We  shall  meet  again  soon,     Good-by !     Don't  stay  here,  now." 

Again  she  pressed  her  to  her  breast — she  had  spoken  in  a 
rapid  manner,  but  firmly — and  Florence  saw  her  rejoin  them  in 
the  other  room. 

And  now  Florence  began  to  hope  that  she  would  learn  from 
her  new  and  beautiful  Mama,  how  to  gain  her  father's  love  ; 
and  in  her  sleep  that  night,  in  her  lost  old  home,  her  own  Mama 
smiled  radiantly  upon  the  hope,  and  blessed  it.  Dreaming 
Florence ' 


392  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


CHAPTER    XXIX. 

THE    OPENING    OF    THE    EVES    OF    MRS,    CHICK. 

Mrss  Tox,  all  unconscious  of  any  such  rare  appearance  in 
connection  with  Mr.  Dombey's  house,  as  scaffoldings  and  lad- 
ders, and  men  with  their  heads  tied  up  in  pocket-handkerchiefs, 
glaring  in  at  the  windows  like  flying  genii  or  strange  birds, — 
having  breakfasted  one  morning  at  about  this  eventful  period 
of  time,  on  her  customary  viands  ;  to  wit,  one  French  roll 
rasped,  one  egg  new  laid  (or  warranted  to  be),  and  one  little 
pot  of  tea,  wherein  was  infused  one  little  silver  scoop-full  of 
that  herb  on  behalf  of  Miss  Tox,  and  one  little  silver  scoop- 
full  on  behalf  of  the  teapot — a  flight  of  fancy  in  which  good 
housekeepers  delight ;  went  up  stairs  to  set  forth  the  bird 
waltz  on  the  harpsichord,  to  water  and  arrange  the  plants,  to 
dust  the  nick-nacks,  and  according  to  her  daily  custom,  to  make 
her  little  drawing-room  the  garland  of  Princess's  Place. 

Miss  Tox  endued  herself  with  the  pair  of  ancient  gloves, 
iike  dead  leaves,  in  which  she  was  accustomed  to  perform  these 
avocations — hidden  from  human  sight  at  other  times  in  a  table 
drawer — and  went  methodically  to  work ;  beginning  with  the 
bird  waltz  ;  passing,  by  a  natural  association  of  ideas,  to  her 
bird — a  very  high-shouldered  canary,  stricken  in  years,  and 
much  rumpled,  but  a  piercing  singer,  as  Princess's  Place  well 
knew ;  taking,  next  in  order,  the  little  china  ornaments,  paper 
fly-cages,  and  so  forth;  and  coming  round,  in  good  time,  to  the 
plants,  which  generally  required  to  be  snipped  here  and  there 
with  a  pair  of  scissors,  for  some  botanical  reason  that  was  very 
powerful  with  Miss  Tox. 

Miss  'I'ox  was  slow  in  coming  to  the  plants,  this  morning. 
The  weather  was  warm,  the  wind  southerly  ;  and  there  was  a 
sigh  of  the  summer  time  in  Princess's  Place,  that  turned  Miss 
Tox's  thoughts  upon  the  country.  The  pot-boy  attached  to 
iVi  Princess's  Arms  had  come  out  with  a  can  and  trickled  water, 
in  a  flowing  pattern,  all  over  Princess's  Place,  and  it  gave  the 
weedy  ground  a  fresh  scent — quite  a  growing  scent,  Miss  Tox 
said.  There  was  a  tiny  blink  of  sun  peeping  in  from  the  great 
street  round  the  corner,  and  the  smoky  sparrow's  hopped  over 
it  and  back  again,  brightening  as  they  passed  :  or  bathed  in  it, 


THE  OrEXLVG  OF  THE  EYES  OF  MRS.  CH/CA'.      2,<)Z 

like  a  stream,  and  became  glorified  sparrows,  unconnected  with 
chimneys.  Legends  in  praise  of  Ginger  Beer,  with  pictorial 
representations  of  thirsty  customers  submerged  in  the  eflerves- 
cence,  or  stunned  by  the  flying  corks,  were  conspicuous  in  the 
window  of  the  Princess's  Arms.  They  were  making  late  hay, 
somewhere  out  of  town  ;  and  though  the  fragrance  had  a  long 
way  to  come,  and  many  counter  fragrances  to  contend  with 
among  the  dwellings  of  the  poor  (may  God  reward  the  worthy 
gentlemen  who  stickle  for  the  Plague  as  part  and  parcel  of  the 
■wisdom  of  our  ancestors  and  who  do  their  little  best  to  keep 
those  dwellings  miserable  !),  yet  it  was  wafted  faintly  into 
Princess's  Place,  whispering  of  Nature  and  her  wholesome  air, 
as  such  things  will,  even  unto  prisoners  and  captives,  and  those 
who  are  desolate  and  oppressed,  in  very  spite  of  aldermen  and 
knights  to  boot ;  at  whose  sage  nod — and  how  they  nod ! — the 
rolling  world  stands  still  ! 

Miss  Tox  sat  down  upon  the  window-seat,  and  thought  of 
her  good  papa  deceased — Mr.  Tox,  of  the  Customs  Depart- 
ment of  the  public  service  ;  and  of  her  childhood,  passed  at  a 
sea-port,  among  a  considerable  quantity  of  cold  tar,  and  some 
rusticity.  She  fell  into  a  softened  remembrance  of  meadows, 
in  old  time,  gleaming  with  buttercups,  like  so  many  inverted 
firmaments  of  golden  stars  ;  and  how  she  had  made  chains  of 
dandelion-stalks  for  youthful  vowers  of  eternal  constancy, 
dressed  chiefly  in  nankeen ;  and  how  soon  those  fetters  had 
withered  and  broken. 

Sitting  on  the  window-seat,  and  looking  out  upon  the  spar- 
rows and  the  blink  of  sun,  Miss  Tox  thought  likewise  of  her 
good  mama  deceased — sister  to  the  owner  of  the  powdered 
head  and  pigtail — of  her  virtues  and  her  rheumatism.  And 
when  a  man  with  bulgy  legs,  and  a  rough  voice,  and  a  heavy 
basket  on  his  head  that  crushed  his  hat  into  a  mere  black 
muffin,  came  crying  flowers  down  Princess's  Place,  making  his 
timid  little  roots  of  daisies  shudder  in  the  vibration  of  every 
yell  he  gave,  as  though  he  had  been  an  ogre,  hawking  little 
children,  summer  recollections  were  so  stiong  upon  Miss  Tox. 
that  she  shook  her  head,  and  murmured  she  would  be  compara- 
tively old  before  she  knew  it — which  seemed  likely. 

In  her  pensive  mood,  Miss  Tox's  thoughts  went  wandering 
on  Mr.  Dombey's  track  ;  probably  because  the  Major  had 
returned  home  to  his  lodgings  opposite,  and  had  just  bowed 
to  her  from  his  window.  What  other  reason  could  Miss  Tox 
have  for  connecting  Mr.  Dombey  with  her  summer  days  and 
dandelion  fetters  ?    Was  he  more  cheerful  ?  thought  Miss  Tox, 


394 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


Was  he   rcconcilcil  to  the   decrees  of  fate  ?     Would  lie   evel 
marry  again  ?  and  if  yes,  whom  ?     What  sort  of  person  now  ! 

A  flush — it  was  warm  weather — overspread  Miss  Tox's  face, 
as,  while  entertaining  these  meditations,  she  turned  her  head, 
and  was  surprised  by  the  reflection  of  her  thoughtful  image  in 
the  chimney-glass.  Another  flush  succeeded  when  she  saw  a 
little  carriage  drive  into  Princess's  Place,  and  make  straight 
for  her  own  door.  Miss  Tox  arose,  took  up  her  scissors  hastily, 
and  so  coming,  at  last,  to  the  plants,  was  very  busy  with  them 
when  Mrs.  Chick  entered  the  room. 

"  How  is  my  sweetest  friend  I  "  exclaimed  Miss  Tox,  with 
open  arms, 

A  little  stateliness  was  mingled  with  Miss  Tox's  sweetest 
friend's  demeanor,  but  she  kissed  Miss  Tox,  and  said,  "  Lucretia, 
thank  you,  I  am  pretty  well.  I  hope  you  are  the  same.    Hem  !  " 

Mrs,  Chick  was  laboring  under  a  peculiar  little  monosyl- 
labic cough  ;  a  sort  of  primer,  or  easy  introduction  to  the  art  of 
coughing. 

"  You  call  very  early,  and  how  kind  that  is^  my  dear  !  "  pur- 
sued Miss  Tox,     "  Now,  have  you  breakfasted  ?  " 

"  Thank  you,  Lucretia,"  said  Mrs,  Chick,  "  I  have,  I  took 
an  early  breakfast  " — the  good  lady  seemed  curious  on  the  sub- 
ject of  Princess's  Place,  and  looked  all  round  it  as  she  spoke, 
"with  my  brother,  who  has  come  home." 

"  He  is  better,  I  trust,  my  love,"  faltered  Miss  Tox. 

"  He  is  greatly  better,  thank  you.     Hem  !  " 

"  My  dear  Louisa  must  be  careful  of  that  cough,"  remarked 
Miss  Tox, 

"  It's  nothing,"  returned  Mrs.  Chick,  "  It's  merely  change 
of  weather.     We  must  expect  change." 

"  Of  weather?"  asked  Miss  Tox,  in  her  simplicity. 

"  Of  everything,"  returned  Mrs.  Chick.  "  Of  course  we 
must.  It's  a  world  of  change.  Any  one  would  surprise  me 
very  much,  Lucretia,  and  would  greatly  alter  my  opinion  of 
their  understanding,  if  they  attempted  to  contradict  or  evade 
what  is  so  perfectly  evident.  Change  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Chick, 
witli  severe  pliilosophy.  "  Why,  my  gracious  me,  what  is  there 
that  does  not  change  !  even  the  silkworm,  who  I  am  sure  might 
be  supposed  not  to  trouble  itself  about  such  subjects,  changes 
into  all  sorts  of  unexpected  things  continually." 

"My  Louisa,"  said  the  mild  Miss  Tox,  "  is  very  happy  in 
her  illustrations," 

"You  are  so  kind,  Lucretia,"  returned  Mrs.  Chick,  a  little 
softened,  "  as  to  say  so,  and  to  think  so,  I    believe.     I  liope 


THE  OPENING  OF  THE  EYES  OF  MRS.  CHICK.      39;$ 

neither  of  us  may  ever  have  any  cause  to  lessen  our  opinion  of 
the  other,  Lucretia." 

"  I  am  sure  of  it,"  returned  Miss  Tox. 

Mrs.  Chick  coughed  as  before,  and  drew  lines  on  the  carpet 
with  the  ivory  end  of  her  parasol.  Miss  Tox,  who  had  expe- 
rience of  her  fair  friend,  and  knew  that  under  the  pressure  _  of 
any  slight  fatigue  or  vexation  she  was  prone  to  a  discursive 
kind  of  irritability,  availed  herself  of  the  pause,  to  change  the 
subject. 

"  Pardon  me,  my  dear  Louisa,"  said  Miss  Tox,  "  but  have 
I  caught  sight  of  the  manly  form  of  Mr.  Chick  in  the  carriage  ?  " 

"  He  is  there,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  "but  pray  leave  him  there. 
He  has  his  newspaper,  and  would  be  quite  contented  for  the 
next  two  hours.  Go  on  with  your  flowers,  Lucretia,  and  allow 
me  to  to  sit  here  and  rest." 

"My  Louisa  knows,"  observed  Miss  Tox,  "that  between 
friends  like  ourselves,  any  approach  to  ceremony  would  be  out 
of  the  question.  Therefore—"  Therefore  Miss  Tox  finished 
the  sentence,  not  in  words  but  action  ;  and  putting  on  her  gloves 
again,  which  she  had  taken  off,  and  arming  herself  once  more 
with  her  scissors,  began  to  snip  and  clip  among  the  leaves  with 
microscopic  industry. 

"  Florence  has  returned  home  also,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  attef 
sitting  silent  for  some  time,  with  her  head  on  one  side,  and  her 
parasol  sketching  on  the  floor  ;  "  and  really  Florence  is  a  great 
deal  too  old  now,  to  continue  to  lead  that  solitary  life  to  which 
she  has  been  accustomed.  Of  course  she  is.  There  can  be 
no  doubt  about  it.  I  should  have  very  little  respect,  indeed, 
for  anybody  who  could  advocate  a  different  opinion.  Whatever 
my  wishes  might  be,  I  r^z^A/zw/ respect  them.^  We  cannot  com- 
mand our  feelings  to  such  an  extent  as  that." 

Miss  Tox  assented,  without  being  particular  as  to  the  intel- 
ligibility of  the  proposition. 

"  If  she's  a  strange  girl,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  "  and  if  my  bro- 
ther Paul  cannot  feel  perfectly  comfortable  in  her  society,  after 
all  the  sad  things  that  have  happened,  and  all  the  terrible  dis- 
appointments that  have  been  undergone,  then,  what  is  the  re- 
ply ?  That  he  must  make  an  effort.  That  he  is  bound  to  make 
an  effort.  We  have  always  been  a  family  remarkable  for  effort. 
Paul  is  at  the  head  of  the  family ;  almost  the  only  representative 
of  it  left— for  what  am  I—/  am  of  no  consequence—" 
"  My  dearest  love,"  remonstrated  Miss  Tox. 
Mrs.  Chick  dried  her  eyes,  which  were,  for  the  moment* 
overflowing ;  and  proceeded  : 


396  DOM  BEY  AND  SON. 

"  And  consequently  he  is  more  than  ever  bound  to  make  at 
effort.  And  though  his  having  done  so,  comes  upon  me  with  a 
sort  of  shock — for  mine  is  a  very  weak  ami  foolish  nature  ;  which 
is  anything  but  a  blessing  I  am  sure  ;  I  often  wish  my  heart 
was  a  marble  slab,  or  a  paving  stone — " 

"  My  sweet  Louisa,"  remonstrated  Miss  Tox  again. 

"  Still,  it  is  a  triumph  to  me  to  know  that  he  is  so  true 
to  himself,  and  to  his  name  of  Dombey  ;  although,  of  course, 
I  always  knew  he  would  be.  I  only  hope,"  said  Mrs.  Chick, 
after  a  pause,  "that  she  may  be  worthy  of  the  name  too." 

Miss  Tox  filled  a  little  green  watering-pot  from  a  jug,  and 
happening  to  look  up  when  she  had  done  so,  was  so  surprised 
by  the  amount  of  expression  Mrs.  Chick  had  conveyed  into 
her  face,  and  was  bestowing  upon  her,  that  she  put ,  the 
little  watering-pot  on  the  table  for  the  present,  and  sat  down 
near  it. 

"  My  dear  Louisa,"  said  Miss  Tox,  "  will  it  be  the  least  sat- 
isfaction to  you,  if  I  venture  to  observe  in  reference  to  that  re- 
mark, that  I,  as  a  humble  individual,  think  your  sweet  niece  in 
every  way  most  promising?  " 

"What  do  you  mean,  Lucretia  ?"  returned  Mrs.  Chick,  with 
increased  stateliness  of  manner.  "To  what  remark  of  mine, 
my  dear,  do  you  refer  ?  " 

"  Her  being  worthy  of  her  name,  my  love,"  replied  Miss  Tox. 

"If,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  with  solemn  patience,  "  I  have  not 
expressed  myself  with  clearness,  Lucretia,  the  fault  of  course  is 
mine.  There  is,  perhaps,  no  reason  why  I  should  express  my- 
self at  all,  except  the  intimacy  that  has  subsisted  between  us, 
and  which  I  very  much  hope,  Lucretia — confidently  hope — ■ 
nothing  will  occur  to  disturb.  Because,  why  should  I  do  any- 
thing else  ?  There  is  no  reason  ;  it  would  be  absurd.  But  I 
wish  to  express  myself  clearly,  Lucretia ;  and  therefore  to  go 
back  to  that  remnrk,  I  must  beg  to  say  that  it  was  not  intended 
to  relate  to  Florence,  in  any  way." 

"  Indeed  !  "  returned  Miss  Tox. 

"  No,"  said  Mrs.  Chick  shortly  and  decisively. 

"  Pardon  me,  my  dear,"  rejoined  her  meek  friend  ;  "but  I 
cannot  ha\e  understood  it.     I  "fear  I  am  dull." 

Mrs.  Chick  looked  round  the  room  and  over  the  way  ;  at 
the  plants,  at  the  bird,  at  the  watering-pot,  at  almost  everything 
wilhin  view,  except  Miss  Tox;  and  finally  dropping  her  glance 
upon  Miss  Tox,  for  a  moment  on  its  way  to  the  ground,  said, 
looking  meanwhile  with  elevated  eyebrows  at  the  carpel: 

"  When  I  speak,  Lucretia,  of  her  being  worthy  of  the  name; 


THE  OPENING  OE  THE  EYES  OE  MRS.  CHICK'.      ^c^>) 

I  speak  of  my  brother  Paul's  second  wife.  I  believe  I  have 
already  said  in  effect,  if  not  in  the  very  words  I  now  use,  that 
it  is  his  intention  to  marry  a  second  wife." 

Miss  Tox  left  her  seat  in  a  hurry,  and  returned  to  her  plants; 
clipping  among  the  stems  and  leaves,  with  as  little  favor  as  a 
barber  working  at  so  many  pauper  heads  of  hair. 

"Whether  she  will  be  fully  sensible  of  the  distinction  con-, 
ferred  upon  her,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  in  a  lofty  tone,  "is  quite 
another  qnestion.  I  hope  she  may  be.  We  are  bound  to  think 
well  of  one  another  in  this  world,  and  I  hope  she  may  be.  I 
have  not  been  advised  with  myself.  If  I  had  been  advised  with, 
I  have  no  doubt  my  advice  would  have  been  cavalierly  received, 
and  therefore  it  is  infinitely  better  as  it  is.  I  much  prefer  it  as 
it  is." 

Miss  Tox,  with  head  bent  down,  still  clipped  among  the 
plants.  Mrs.  Chick,  with  energetic  shakings  of  her  own  head 
from  time  to  time,  continued  to  hold  forth,  as  if  in  defiance  of 
somebody. 

"  If  my  brother  Paul  had  consulted  with  me,  which  he 
sometimes  does — or  rather,  sometimes  used  to  do  ;  for  he  will 
naturally  do  that  no  more  now,  and  this  is  a  circumstance 
which  I  regard  as  a  relief  from  responsibility,"  said  Mrs.  Chick, 
hysterically,  "for  I  thank  Heaven  I  am  not  jealous — "  here 
Mrs.  Chick  again  shed  tears  :  "  if  my  brother  Paul  had  come  to 
me,  and  had  said,  '  Louisa,  what  kind  of  qualities  would  you 
advise  me  to  look  out  for,  in  a  wife  ? '  I  should  certainly  have 
answered,  '  Paul,  you  must  have  family,  you  must  have  beauty, 
you  must  have  dignity,  you  must  have  connection.'  Those  are 
the  words  I  should  have  used.  You  might  have  led  me  to  the 
block  immediately  afterwards,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  as  if  that  con- 
sequence were  highly  probable,  "  but  I  should  have  used  them. 
I  should  have  said,  '  Paul  !  you  to  marry  a  second  time  without 
family  !  You  to  marry  without  beauty  !  You  to  marry  with- 
out dignity  !  You  to  marry  without  connection  !  There  is 
nobody  in  the  world,  not  mad,  who  could  dream  of  daring  lO 
entertain  such  a  preposterous  idea  !  " 

Miss  Tox  stopped  clipping ;  and  with  her  head  among  the 
plants,  listened  attentively.  Perhaps  Miss  Tox  thought  there 
was  hope  in  this  exordium,  and  the  warmth  of  Mrs.  Chick. 

"  I  should  have  adopted  this  course  of  argument,"  pursued 
the  discreet  lady,  "  because  I  trust  I  am  not  a  fool.  I  make 
no  claim  to  be  considered  a  person  of  superior  intellect — • 
though  I  believe  some  people  have  been  extraordinary  enough 
to  consider  me  so  ;  one  so  little  humored  as  I  am.  would  very 


398  DOM  BE  Y  AND  SOM 

soon  be  disabused  of  any  such  notion  \  but  I  trust  I  am  not  a 
downright  fool.  And  to  tell  me,"  said  Mrs.  Chick  with  ineffa- 
ble disdain,  "that  my  brother  Paul  Dombey  could  ever  con- 
template the  possibility  of  uniting  himself  to  anybody — I  don't 
care  who  " — she  was  more  sharp  and  emphatic  in  that  short 
clause  than  in  any  other  part  of  her  discourse — "  not  possess- 
ing these  requisites,  would  be  to  insult  what  understanding  I 
have  got,  as  much  as  if  I  was  to  be  told  that  I  was  born  and 
bred  an  elephant,  which  I  may  be  told  next,"  said  Mrs.  Chick, 
with  resignation.    "  It  wouldn't  surprise  me  at  all.    I  expect  it." 

In  the  moment's  silence  that  ensued,  Miss  Tox's  scissors 
gave  a  feeble  clip  or  two  :  but  Miss  Tox's  face  was  still  invisi- 
ble, and  Miss  Tox's  morning  gown  was  agitated.  Mrs.  Chick 
looked  sideways  at  her,  through  the  intervening  plants  ;  and 
went  on  to  say,  in  a  tone  of  bland  conviction,  and  as  one  dwell- 
ing on  a  point  of  fact  that  hardly  required  to  be  stated  : 

"  Therefore,  of  course  my  brother  Paul  has  done  what  was 
to  be  expected  of  hun,  and  what  anybody  might  have  foreseen 
he  would  do,  if  he  enteied  the  marriage  state  again.  I  confess 
it  takes  me  rather  by  surprise,  however  gratifying  ;  because 
when  Paul  went  out  of  town  I  had  no  idea  at  all  that  he  would 
form  any  attachment  out  of  town,  and  he  certainly  had  no 
attachment  when  he  left  here  However,  it  seems  to  be  ex- 
tremely desirable  in  every  pomt  of  view.  I  have  no  doubt  tlie 
mother  is  a  most  genteel  and  elegant  creature,  and  I  have  no 
right  whatever  to  dispute  the  policy  of  her  living  with  them 
which  is  Paul's  affair,  not  mine — and  as  to  Paul's  choice,  her 
self,  I  have  only  seen  her  picture  yet.  but  that  is  beautiful  in- 
deed. Her  name  is  beautiful  too,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  shaking  her 
head  with  energy,  and  arranging  herself  in  her  chair ;  "  Edith 
is  at  once  uncommon,  as  it  strikes  me,  and  distinguished 
Consequently,  Lucretia,  \  have  no  doubt  you  will  be  happy  to 
hear  that  tlie  marriage  is  to  take  place  immediately — of  course, 
you  will :  "  great  emphasis  again  :  "  and  that  you  are  delighted 
with  this  change  in  the  condition  of  my  brother,  who  has  shown 
you  a  great  deal  of  pleasant  attention  at  various  times." 

Miss  Tox  made  no  verbal  answer,  but  took  up  the  little 
watering-pot  with  a  trembling  hand,  and  looked  vacantly  round 
as  if  considering  what  article  of  furniture  would  be  iiiiproved 
by  the  contents.  The  room  door  opening  at  this  crisis  of  Miss 
Tox's  feelings,  she  started,  laughed  aloud,  and  fell  into  the 
arms  of  the  person  entering  ;  happily  insensible  alike  of  Mrs. 
Chick's  indignantcountenance,  and  of  the  Major  at  his  window 
over  the  way,  who  had  his  double-barrelled  eye-glass  in  full 


Tnk  OPEiVWG  OF  TH&  JSYES  OF  MkS   CHICK. 


m 


aciion,  and  whose  face  and  figure  were  dilated  with  Mephis- 
tophilean  joy. 

Not  so  the  expatriated  Native,  amazed  supporter  of  Miss 
Tox's  swooning  form,  who,  coming  straight  up  stairs,  with  a 
poHte  inquiry  touching  Miss  Tox's  heakh  (in  exact  pursuance 
of  the  Major's  mahcious  instructions)  had  accidentally  arrived 
in  the  very  nick  of  time  to  catch  the  delicate  burden  in  his 
arms,  and  to  receive  the  contents  of  the  little  watering-pot  in 
his  shoe  ;  both  of  which  circumstances,  coupled  with  his  con- 
sciousness of  being  closely  watched  by  the  wrathful  Major,  who 
had  threatened  the  usual  penalty  in  regard  of  every  bone  in  his 
skin  in  case  of  any  failure,  combined  to  render  him  a  moving 
spectacle  of  mental  and  bodily  distress. 

For  some  moments,  this  afflicted  foreigner  remained  clasp- 
ing Miss  Tox  to  his  heart,  with  an  energy  of  action  in  remark- 
able opposition  to  his  disconcerted  face,  while  that  poor  lady 
trickled  slowly  down  upon  him  the  very  last  sprinklings  of  the 
little  watering-pot,  as  if  he  were  a  delicate  exotic  (which  indeed 
he  was),  and  might  be  almost  expected  to  blow  wdiile  the  gen- 
tle rain  descended.  Mrs.  Chick,  at  length  recovering  sufficient 
presence  of  mind  to  interpose,  commanded  him  to  drop  Miss 
Tox  upon  the  sofa  and  withdraw  ;  and  the  exile  promptly  obey- 
ing, she  applied  herself  to  promote  Miss  Tox's  recovery. 

But  none  of  that  gentle  concern  which  usually  characterizes 
the  daughters  of  Eve  in  their  tending  of  each  other  ;  none  of 
that  freemasonry  in  fainting,  by  which  they  are  generally  bound 
together  in  a  mysterious  bond  of  sisterhood ;  was  visible  in 
Mrs,  Chick's  demeanor.  Rather  like  the  executioner  who  re- 
stores the  victim  to  sensation  previous  to  proceeding  with  the 
torture  (or  was  wont  to  do  so,  in  the  good  old  times  for  which 
all  true  men  wear  perpetual  mourning),  did  Mrs.  Chick  admin- 
ister the  smelling-bottle,  the  slapping  on  the  hands,  the  dash- 
ing of  cold  water  on  the  face,  and  the  other  proved  remedies. 
And  when,  at  length,  Miss  Tox  opened  her  eyes,  and  gradually 
became  restored  to  animation  and  consciousness,  Mrs.  Chick 
drew  off  as  from  a  criminal,  and  reversing  the  precedent  of  the 
murdered  king  of  Denmark,  regarded  her  more  in  anger  than 
in  sorrow. 

"  Lucretia  !  "  said  Mrs  Chick.  "  I  will  not  attempt  to  dis- 
guise what  I  feel.  My  eyes  are  opened,  all  at  once.  1  wouldn't 
have  believed  this,  if  a  Saint  had  told  it  to  me." 

"I  am  foolish  to  give  way  to  faintness,"  Miss  Tox  faltered. 
"I  shall  be  better  presently." 

"  You  will  be  better  presently,  Lucretia  ! "  repeated  Mrs. 


406  DOMBEY  AND  <;oN. 

Chick,  with  exceeding  scorn.  "  Do  you  suppose  I  am  blind; 
Do  you  imagine  I  am  in  my  second  childhood'  No,  Lucretial 
1  am  obliged  to  you  !  " 

Miss  Tox  directed  an  imploring  helpless  kind  of  look  to« 
wards  her  friend,  and  put  her  handkerchief  before  her  face, 

"  If  any  one  had  told  me  this  yesterday,"  said  Mrs.  Chick, 
with  majesty,  "or  even  half-an-hour  ago,  I  should  have  been 
tempted,  I  almost  believe,  to  strike  them  to  the  earth.  Lucre- 
tia  Tox,  my  eyes  are  open  to  you  all  at  once.  The  scales  :  " 
here  Mrs.  Chick  cast  down  an  imaginary  pair,  such  as  are  com- 
monly used  in  grocers'  shops  :  "  have  fallen  from  my  sight 
The  blindness  of  my  confidence  is  past,  Lucretia.  It  has  been 
abused  and  played  upon,  and  evasion  is  quite  out  of  the  ques- 
tion now,  I  assure  you." 

"  Oh !  to  what  do  you  allude  so  cruelly,  my  love  ?  "  asked 
Miss  Tox,  through  her  tears. 

"  Lucretia,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  "  ask  your  own  heart.  I  must 
entreat  you  not  to  address  me  by  any  such  familiar  term  as  you 
have  just  used,  if  you  please.  I  have  some  self-respect  left, 
though  you  may  think  otherwise." 

"  Oh,  Louisa  !  "  cried  Miss  Tox.  "  How  can  you  speak  to 
me  like  that  ?  " 

"  How  can  I  speak  to  you  like  that  ?  "  retorted  Mrs.  Chick, 
who,  in  default  of  having  any  particular  argument  to  sustain 
herself  upon,  relied  principally  on  such  repetitions  for  her 
most  withering  efifects.  "  Like  that !  You  may  well  say  like 
that,  indeed  !  " 

Miss  Tox  sobbed  pitifully. 

"  The  idea  !  "  said  Mrs.  Chick,  "  of  your  having  basked  at 
my  brother's  fireside,  like  a  serpent,  and  wound  yourself, 
through  me,  almost  into  his  confidence,  Lucretia,  that  you 
might,  in  secret,  entertain  designs  upon  him,  and  dare  to  as- 
pire to  contemplate  the  possibility  of  his  uniting  himself  to 
you!  Why,  it  is  an  idea,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  with  sarcastic  dig- 
nity, "  the  absurdity  of  which  almost  relieves  its  treacher)'." 

"  Pray,  Louisa,"  urged  Miss  Tox,  "  do  not  say  such  dread- 
ful things." 

"Dreadful  things!"  repeated  Mrs.  Chick.  "Dreadful 
things  !  Is  it  not  a  fact,  Lucretia,  that  you  have  just  now  been 
unable  to  commantl  your  feelings  even  before  me,  whose  eyes 
you  had  so  completely  closed .''  " 

"  I  have  made  no  complaint,"  sobbed  Miss  Tox.  "  I  have 
said  nothing.  If  I  luue  been  a  little  overpowered  by  your 
news,  Louisa,  and  have  ever  had  any  lingering  thought  that 


THE  OrENIiYG  OF  THE  EYES  OF  MRS.  CHICK. 


401 


Mr,  Dombey  was  inclined  to  be  particular  towards  me,  surely 
you  will  not  condemn  me." 

"She  is  going  to  say,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  addressing  herself 
to  the  whole  of  the  furniture,  in  a  comprehensive  glance  of 
resignation  and  appeal,  "  She  is  going  to  say — I  know  it — that 
I  have  encouraged  her  !  " 

"  I  don't  wish  to  exchange  reproaches,  dear  Louisa," 
'sobbed  Miss  Tox.  "  Nor  do  I  wish  to  complain.  But,  in  my 
own  defence — " 

"Yes,"  cried  Mrs.  Chick,  looking  round  the  room  with  a 
prophetic  smile,  "  that's  what  she's  going  to  say.  I  knew  it. 
You  had  better  say  it.  Say  it  openly  !  Be  open,  Lucretia 
Tox,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  with  desperate  sternness,  "  whatever 
you  are." 

"  In  my  own  defence,"  faltered  Miss  Tox,  "  and  only  in  my 
own  defence  against  your  unkind  words,  my  dear  Louisa,  I 
would  merely  ask  you  if  you  haven't  often  favored  such  a  fancy, 
and  even  said  it  might  happen,  for  anything  we  could  tell  ?  " 

"  There  is  a  point,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  rising,  not  as  if  she 
were  going  to  stop  at  the  floor,  but  as  if  she  were  about  to  soar 
up,  high,  into  her  native  skies,  "  beyond  which  endurance  be- 
comes ridiculous,  if  not  culpable.  I  can  bear  much  ;  but  not  too 
much.  What  spell  was  on  me  when  I  came  into  this  house  this 
day,  I  don't  know  ;  but  I  had  a  presentiment — a  dark  presenti- 
ment," said  Mrs.  Chick,  with  a  shiver,  "that  something  was  go- 
ing to  happen.  Well  may  I  have  had  that  foreboding,  Lucretia, 
when  my  confidence  of  many  years  is  destroyed  in  an  instant, 
when  my  eyes  are  opened  all  at  once,  and  when  I  find  you  re- 
vealed in  your  true  colors.  Lucretia,  I  have  been  mistaken  in 
you.  It  is  better  for  us  both  that  tliis  subject  should  end  here. 
I  wish  you  well,  and  I  shall  ever  wish  you  well.  But,  as  an  in- 
dividual who  desires  to  be  true  to  herself  in  her  own  poor  posi- 
tion, whatever  that  position  may  be,  or  may  not  be — and  as  the 
sister  of  my  brother — and  as  the  sister-in-law  of  my  brother's 
wife — and  as  a  connection  by  marriage  of  my  brother's  wife's 
mother — may  I  be  permitted  to  add,  as  a  Dombey  ? — I  can 
wish  you  nothing  else  but  good-morning." 

These  words,  delivered  with  cutting  suavity,  tempered  and 
chastened  by  a  lofty  air  of  moral  rectitude,  carried  the  speaker 
to  the  door.  There  she  inclined  her  head  in  a  ghostly  and 
statue-like  manner,  and  so  withdrew  to  her  carriage,  to  seek 
comfort  and  consolation  in  the  arms  of  Mr.  Chick  her  lord. 

Figuratively  speaking,  that  is  to  say  ;  for  the  arms  of  Mr. 
Chick  were  full  of  his  newspaper,     Neither  did  that  gentleman 


402  DOMBE  Y  AND  SOX. 

address  his  eyes  towards  his  wife  otherwise  than  by  stealtK 
Neither  did  he  offer  any  consolation  whatever.  In  short,  he 
sat  reading,  and  humming  fag  ends  of  tunes,  and  sometimes 
glancing  furtively  at  her  without  delivering  himself  of  a  word, 
good,  bad,  or  indifferent. 

In  the  mean  time  Mrs.  Chick  sat  swelling  and  bridling,  and 
tossing  her  head,  as  if  she  were  still  repeating  that  solemn  for- 
mula of  farewell  to  Lucretia  Tox.  At  length,  she  said  aloud, 
"  Oh  the  extent  to  which  her  eyes  had  been  opened  that  day  !  " 

"  To  which  your  eyes  have  been  opened,  my  dear ! "  re- 
peated Mr.  Chick. 

"  Oh,  don't  talk  to  me  !  "  said  Mrs.  Chick.  "  If  you  can 
bear  to  see  me  in  this  state,  and  not  ask  me  what  the  matter 
is,  you  had  better  hold  your  tongue  forever." 

"What  is  the  matter,  my  dear.?  "  asked  Mr.  Chick. 

"  To  think,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  in  a  state  of  soliloquy,  "  that 
she  should  ever  have  conceived  the  base  idea  of  connecting 
herself  with  our  family  by  a  marriage  with  Paul  !  To  think 
that  when  she  was  playing  at  horses  with  that  dear  child  who 
is  now  in  his  grave — I  never  liked  it  at  the  time — she  should 
have  been  hiding  such  a  double-faced  design  !  I  wonder  she 
was  never  afraid  that  something  would  happen  to  her.  She  is 
fortunate  if  nothing  does." 

"  I  really  thought,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Chick  slowly,  after 
rubbing  the  bridge  of  his  nose  for  some  time  with  his  news- 
paper, "  that  you  had  gone  on  the  same  tack  yourself,  all  along, 
until  this  morning  ;  and  had  thought  it  would  be  a  convenient 
thing  enough,  if  it  could  have  have  been  brought  about." 

Mrs.  Chick  instantly  burst  into  tears,  and  told  Mr.  Chick 
that  if  he  wished  to  trample  upon  her  with  his  boots,  he  had 
better  do  it. 

"  But  with  Lucretia  Tox  I  have  done,"  said  Mrs.  Chick, 
after  abandoning  herself  to  her  feelings  for  some  minutes,  to 
Mr.  Chick's  great  terror.  "  I  can  bear  to  resign  Paul's  confi- 
dence in  favor  of  one  who,  I  hope  and  trust,  m.  .y  be  deserving 
of  it,  and  with  whom  he  has  a  perfect  right  to  replace  poor 
Fanny  if  he  chooses  ;  I  can  bear  to  be  informed,  in  Paul's  cool 
manner,  of  such  a  change  in  his  plans,  and  never  to  be  con- 
sulted until  all  is  selllcd  and  determined  ;  but  deceit  I  can  vot 
bear,  and  with  Lucretia  Tox  I  have  done.  It  is  better  as  it 
is,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  piously  ;  "  much  better.  It  would  have 
been  a  long  time  before  I  could  have  accommodated  myself 
comfortably  with  her,  after  this ;  and  I  really  don't  know,  as 
Paul  is  going  to  be  vfry  grand,  and  these  are  people  of  condl- 


THE  INTERVAL  BEEORE   THE  ArARR/AGE.  403 

tion,  that  she  would  have  been  quite  presentable,  and  might 
not  have  compromised  myself.  There's  a  providence  in  every- 
thing ;  everything  works  for  the  best  ;  I  have  been  tried  to-day, 
but,  upon  the  whole,  I  don't  regret  it." 

In  which  Christian  spirit,  Mrs.  Chick  dried  her  eyes,  and 
smoothed  her  lap,  and  sat  as  became  a  person  calm  under  a 
great  wrong.  Mr.  Chick,  feeling  his  unworthiness,  no  doubt, 
took  an  early  opportunity  of  being  set  down  at  a  street  corner 
and  walking  away,  whistling,  with  his  shoulders  very  much 
raised,  and  his  hands  in  his  pockets. 

While  poor  excommunicated  Miss  Tox,  who,  if  she  were  a 
fawner  and  toad-eater,  was  at  least  an  honest  and  a  constant 
one,  and  had  ever  borne  a  faithful  friendship  towards  her  im- 
peacher,  and  had  been  truly  absorbed  and  swallowed  up  in 
devotion  to  the  magnificence  of  Mr.  Dombey— while  poor 
excommunicated  Miss  Tox  watered  her  plants  with  her  tears, 
and  felt  that  it  was  winter  in  Princess's  Place. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

THE   INTERVAL   BEFORE   THE    MARRIAGE. 

Although  the  enchanted  house  was  no  more,  and  the  work- 
ing world  had  broken  into  it,  and  was  hammering  and  crashing 
and  tramping  up  and  down  stairs  all  day  long,  keeping  Diogenes 
in  an  incessant  paroxysm  of  barking,  from  sunrise  to  sunset — 
evidently  convinced  that  his  enemy  had  got  the  better  of  him  at 
last,  and  was  then  sacking  the  premises  in  triumphant  defiance 
■ — there  was,  at  first,  no  other  great  change  in  the  method  of 
Florence's  life.  At  night,  when  the  workpeople  went  away,  the 
house  was  dreary  and  deserted  again  ;  and  Florence,  listening 
to  their  voices  echoing  through  the  hall  and  staircase  as  they 
departed,  pictured  to  herself  the  cheerful  homes  to  which  they 
were  returning,  and  the  children  who  were  waiting  for  them, 
and  was  glad  to  think  that  they  were  meriy  and  well  pleased 
to  go. 

She  welcomed  back  the  evening  silence  as  an  old  friend,  but 
it  came  now  with  an  altered  face  and  looked  more  kindly  on 
her.     Fresh   hope   was   m    it.     The   beautiful    lady  who    had 


404 


DOMBEY  AXD  SOX. 


soothed  and  caressed  her,  in  the  very  room  in  which  her  heart 
had  been  so  wrung,  was  a  spirit  of  promise  to  her.  Soft  shad- 
ows of  the  bright  life  dawning,  when  her  father's  affection 
should  be  gradually  won,  and  all,  or  much  should  be  restored, 
of  what  she  had  lost  on  the  dark  day  when  a  mother's  love  had 
faded  with  a  mother's  last  breath  on  her  cheek,  moved  about 
her  in  the  twilight  and  were  welcome  company.  Peeping  at  the 
rosy  children  her  neighbors,  it  was  a  new  and  precious  sensation 
to  think  that  they  might  soon  speak  together  and  know  each 
other  ;  when  she  would  not  fear,  as  of  old,  to  show  herself  be- 
fore them,  lest  they  should  be  grieved  to  see  her  in  her  black 
dress  sitting  there  alone  ! 

In  her  thoughts  of  her  new  mother,  and  in  the  love  and 
trust  overflowing  her  pure  heart  towards  her,  Florence  loved 
her  own  dead  mother  more  and  more.  She  had  no  fear  of  set- 
ting up  a  rival  in  her  breast.  The  new  flower  sprang  from  the 
deep-planted  and  long-cherished  root,  she  knew.  Every  gentle 
word  that  had  fallen  from  the  lips  of  the  beautiful  lady,  sounded 
to  Florence  like  an  echo  of  the  voice  long  hushed  and  silent. 
How  could  she  love  that  memory  less  for  living  tenderness,  when 
it  was  her  memory  of  all  parental  tenderness  and  love  ! 

Florence  was  one  day  sitting  reading  in  her  room,  and 
thinking  of  the  lady  and  her  promised  visit  soon — for  her  book 
turned  on  a  kindred  subject — when,  raising  her  eyes,  she  saw 
her  standing  in  the  doorway. 

"  Mama!  "  cried  Florence,  joyfully  meeting  her.  "  Come 
again  !  " 

"  Not  Mama  yet,"  returned  the  lady,  with  a  serious  smile, 
as  she  encircled  Florence's  neck  with  her  arm. 

"  But  very  soon  to  be,"  cried  Florence. 

"  Very  soon  now,  Plorence  :  very  soon." 

Edith  bent  her  head  a  little,  so  as  to  press  the  blooming 
cheek  of  Florence  against  her  own,  and  for  some  few  moments 
remained  thus  silent.  There  was  something  so  very  tender  in 
her  manner,  that  Florence  was  even  more  sensible  of  it  than  on 
the  first  occasion  of  their  meeting. 

She  led  Florence  to  a  chair  beside  her,  and  sat  down:  l'1or- 
ence  looking  in  her  face,  quite  wondering  at  its  beauty,  and 
willingly  leaving  her  hand  in  hers. 

"  Have  you  been  alone,  Florence,  since  I  was  here  last } " 

"■  Oh  yes  !  "  smiled  Florence,  hastily. 

She  hesitated  and  cast  down  her  eyes  ;  for  her  new  Mama 
was  very  earnest  in  her  look,  and  thg  look  was  intently  and 
thought  fullv  llxed  unon  her  face, 


THE  LVTEA'VAL  BEFORE  THE  MARRlAuE.        405 

"  I — I — am  used  to  be  alone,"  said  Florence.     "  I  don't  mind 
it  at  all.     Di  and  I  pass  whole   days  together,  sometimes." 
Florence  might  have  said,  whole  weeks  and  months. 
"  Is  Di  your  maid,  love  ?  " 

"  My  dog,  Mama,"  said  Florence,  laughing.  "  Susan  is  my 
maid." 

"  And  these  are  your  rooms,"  said  Edith,  looking  round. 
"  I  was  not  shown  these  rooms  the  other  day.  We  must  have 
them  improved,  Florence.  They  shall  be  made  the  prettiest  in 
the  house." 

"  If  I  might  change  them,  Mama,"  returned  Florence ; 
"  There  is  one  upstairs  I  should  like  much  better." 

"  Is  this  not  high  enough,  dear  girl  ? "  inquired  Edith, 
smiling. 

"  The  other  was  my  brother's  room,"  said  Florence,  "  And  I 
am  very  fond  of  it.  I  would  have  spoken  to  Papa  about  it  when 
I  came  home,  and  found  the  workmen  here,  and  everything 
changing  :   but — " 

Florence  dropped  her  eyes,  lest  the  same  look  should  make 
her  falter  again. 

<' — but  I  was  afraid  it  might  distress  him  ;  and  as  you  said 
you  would  be  here  again  soon,  Mama,  and  are  the  mistress  of 
everything,  I  determ'ined  to  take  courage  and  ask  you." 

Edith  sat  looking  at  her,  with  her  brilliant  eyes  intent  upon 
her  face,  until  Florence  raising  her  own,  she,  in  her  turn,  with- 
drew her  gaze,  and  turned  it  on  the  ground.  It  was  then  that 
Florence  thought,how  different  this  lady's  beauty  was,  from  what 
she  had  supposed.  She  had  thought  of  it  a  proud  and  lofty 
kind  ;  yet  her  manner  was  so  subdued  and  gentle,  that  if  she 
had  been  of  Florence's  own  age  and  character,  it  scarcely  could 
have  invited  confidence  more. 

Except  when  a  constrained  and  singular  reserve  crept  over 
her  :  and  then  she  seemed  (but  Florence  hardly  understood  this, 
though  she  could  not  choose  but  notice  it,  and  think  about  it) 
as  if  she  were  humbled  before  Florence  and  ill  at  ease.  When 
she  had  said  that  she  was  not  her  Mama  yet,  and  when  Florence 
had  called  her  the  mistress  of  everything  there,  this  change  in 
her  was  quick  and  startling  ;  and  now,  while  the  eyes  of  Florence 
rested  on  her  face,  she  sat  as  though  she  would  have  shrunk 
and  hidden  from  her,  rather  than  as  one  about  to  love  and 
cherish  her,  in  right  of  such  a  near  connection. 

She  gave  Florence  her  ready  promise,  about  her  new  room, 
and  said  she  would  give  directions  about  it  herself.  She  then 
asked  some  questions  concerning  poor  Paul ;  and  when  they 


4o6  dOsMbey  and  ^6n. 

had  sat  in  conversation   for  some  time,  told  Florence  she  hai 
come  to  take  her  to  her  own  home. 

"  We  have  come  to  London  now,  my  mother  and  I,"  said 
Edith,  "  and  you  shall  stay  with  us  until  I  am  married,  I  wish 
^at  we  should  know  and  trust  each  other,  Florence." 

"  You  are  very  kind  to  me,"  said  Florence,  "  dear  Mamg 
How  much  I  thank  you  !  " 

"  Let  me  say  now,  for  it  may  be  the  best  opportunity,"  con- 
tinued Edith,  looking  round  to  see  that  they  were  quite  alone, 
and  speaking  in  a  lower  voice,  "  that  when  I  am  married,  and 
have  gone  away  for  some  weeks,  I  shall  be  easier  at  heart  if  you 
will  come  home  here.  No  matter  who  invites  you  to  stay  else- 
where, come  home  here.  It  is  better  to  be  alone  than — what  I 
would  say  is,"  she  added,  checking  herself,  "  that  I  know  well 
you  are  best  at  home,  dear  Florence." 

"  I  will  come  home  on  the  very  day.  Mama." 

"  Do  so.  I  rely  on  that  promise.  Now,  prepare  to  come 
with  me,  dear  girl.  You  will  find  me  down  stairs  when  you  are 
ready." 

Slowly  and  thoughtfully  did  Edith  wander  alone  through 
the  mansion  of  which  she  was  so  soon  to  be  the  lady  :  and  little 
heed  took  she  of  all  the  elegance  and  splendor  it  began  to  dis- 
play. Th.e  same  indomitable  haughtiness  of  soul,  the  same 
proud  scoru  expressed  in  eye  and  lip,  the  same  fierce  beautv, 
only  tamed  by  a  sense  of  its  own  little  worth,  and  of  the  little 
worth  of  everything  around  it,  went  through  the  grand  saloons 
and  halls,  that  had  got  loose  among  the  shady  trees,  and  raged 
and  rent  themselves.  The  mimic  roses  on  the  walls  and  floors 
were  set  round  with  sharp  thorns,  that  tore  her  breast;  in  every 
scrap  of  gold  so  dazzling  to  the  eye,  she  saw  some  hateful  atom 
of  her  purchase-money  ;  the  broad  high  mirrors  showed  her,  at 
full  length,  a  woman  with  a  noble  quality  yet  dwelling  in  her 
nature,  who  was  too  false  to  her  better  self,  and  too  debased 
and  lost,  to  save  herself.  She  believed  that  all  this  was  so 
plain,  more  or  less,  to  all  eyes,  that  she  had  no  resource  or 
power  of  self-assertion  but  in  pride  :  and  with  this  pride,  which 
tortured  her  own  heart  night  and  day,  she  fought  her  fate  out, 
braved  it,  and  defied  it. 

Was  this  the  woman  whom  Florence — an  innocent  girl, 
strong  only  in  her  earnestness  and  simple  truth — could  so 
impress  and  quell,  that  by  her  side  she  was  another  creature, 
with  her  tempest  of  passion  hushed,  and  lier  very  pride  itseli 
subdued  .''  Was  this  the  woman  who  now  sat  beside  her  in  a 
carriage,  with  her  arms  entwined,  and  who,  wUle  she  courtecl 


THE  INTERVAL  BEFORE   THE  MARRIAGE. 


107 


and  entreated  her  to  love  and  trust  her,  drew  her  fair  head  to 
nestle  on  her  breast,  and  would  have  laid  down  life  to  shield  it 
from  wrong  or  harm  ? 

Oh,  Edith!  it  were  well  to  die,  indeed,  at  such  a  time ! 
Better  and  happier  far,  perhaps,  to  die  so,  Edith,  than  to  live 
on  to  the  end  ! 

The  Honorable  Mrs.  Skewton,  who  was  thinking  of  any- 
thing rather  than  of  such  sentiments — for,  like  many  genteel 
persons  who  have  existed  at  various  times,  she  set  her  face 
against  death  altogether,  and  objected  to  the  mention  of  any 
such  low  and  levelling  upstart — had  borrowed  a  house  in  Brook 
Street,  Grosvenor  Square,  from  a  stately  relative  (one  of  the 
Feenix  brood\  who  was  out  of  town,  and  who  did  not  object  to 
lending  it,  in  the  handsomest  manner,  for  nuptial  purposes,  as 
the  loan  implied  his  final  release  and  acquittance  from  all 
further  loans  and  gifts  to  Mrs.  Skewton  and  her  daughter.  It 
being  necessary  for  the  credit  of  the  family  to  make  a  hand- 
some appearance  at  such  a  time,  Mrs.  Skewton,  v;ith  the 
assistance  of  an  accommodating  tradesman  resident  in  the  parish 
of  Mary-le-bone,  who  lent  out  all  sorts  of  articles  to  the  nobility 
and  gentry,  from  a  service  of  plate  to  an  army  of  footmen, 
clapped  into  this  house  a  silver-headed  butler  (who  was  charged 
extra  on  that  account,  as  having  the  appearance  of  an  ancient 
family  retainer),  two  very  tall  young  men  in  livery,  and  a  select 
staff  of  kitchen-servants  ;  so  that  a  legend  arose,  down  stairs, 
that  \\'ithers  the  page,  released  at  once  from  his  numerous 
household  duties,  and  from  the  propulsion  of  the  wheeled-chair 
(inconsistent  with  the  metropolis),  had  been  several  times 
observed  to  rub  his  eyes  and  pinch  his  limbs,  as  if  he  mis- 
doubted his  having  overslept  himself  at  the  Leamington  milk- 
man's, and  being  still  in  a  celestial  dream.  A  variety  of 
requisites  in  plate  and  china  being  also  conveyed  to  the  same 
establishment  from  the  same  convenient  source,  with  several 
miscellaneous  articles,  including  a  neat  chariot  and  a  pair  of 
bays,  Mrs.  Skewton  cushioned  herself  on  the  principal  sofa,  in 
the  Cleopatra  attitude,  and  held  her  court  in  fair  state. 

"  And  how,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  on  the  entrance  of  her 
daughter  and  her  charge,  "  is  my  charming  Florence  ?  You 
must  come  and  kiss  me,  Florence,  if  you  please,  my  love." 

Florence  was  timidly  stooping  to  pick  out  a  place  in  the 
white  part  of  Mrs.  Skewton's  face,  when  that  lady  presented 
her  ear,  and  relieved  her  of  her  difficulty. 

"  Edith,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton  "  positively,  I — stand 
a  little  more  in  the  light,  my  sweetest  Florence,  for  a  moment" 


^o8  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

Florence  blushingly  complied. 

"  You  don't  remember,  dearest  Edith,"  said  her  mother, 
**  what  you  were  when  you  were  about  the  same  age  as  out 
exceedingly  precious  Florence,  or  a  few  years  younger?  " 

"  I  have  long  forgotten,  mother." 

"  For  positively,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  "  I  do  think 
(that  I  see  a  decided  resemblance  to  what  you  were  then,  in  our 
extremely  fascinating  j-oung  friend.  And  it  shows,"  said  Mrs. 
Skewton,'  in  a  lower  voice,  which  conveyed  her  opinion  that 
Florence  was  in  a  very  unfinished  state,  "  what  cultivation  will 
do." 

"  It  does,  indeed,"  was  Edith's  stern  reply. 

Her  mother  eyed  her  sharply  for  a  moment,  and  feeling 
herself  on  unsafe  ground,  said,  as  a  diversion  : 

"  My  charming  Florence,  you  must  come  and  kiss  me  once 
more,  if  you  please,  my  love." 

Florence  complied,  of  course,  and  again  imprinted  her  lips 
«n  Mrs.  Skewton's  ear. 

"  And  you  have  heard,  no  doubt,  my  darling  pet,"  said  Mrs. 
Skewton,  detaining  her  hand,  "  that  your  Papa,  whom  we  all 
perfectly  adore  and  doat  upon,  is  to  be  married  to  my  dearest 
/dith  this  day  week." 

"  I   knew  it  would  be  very  soon,"  returned  Florence,  "  but 
<!Ot  exactly  when." 

"  My  darling  Edith,"  urged  her  mother,  gayly,  "  is  it  pos- 
sible you  have  not  told  Florence?  " 

"  Why  should  I  tell  Florence  ?  "  she  returned,  so  suddenly 
<tnd  harshly,  that  Florence  could  scarcely  believe  it  was  the 
*ame  voice. 

Mrs.  Skewton  then  told  Florence,  as  another  and  safer 
«fiversion,  that  her  father  was  coming  to  dinner,  and  that  he 
♦vould  no  doubt  be  charmingly  surprised  to  see  her ;  as  he  had 
«poken  last  night  of  dressing  in  the  City,  and  had  known  noth- 
'ing  of  Edith's  design,  the  execution  of  which,  according  to  Mrs. 
Skewton's  expectation,  would  throw  him  into  a  perfect  ecstasy. 
Florence  was  troubled  to  hear  this  ;  and  her  distress  became  so 
keen,  as  the  dinner-hour  approached,  that  if  she  had  known  how 
to  frame  an  entreaty  to  be  suffered  to  return  home,  without 
involving  her  father  in  her  explanation,  she  would  have  hurried 
back  on  foot,  bareheaded,  breathless,  and  alone,  rather  than 
incur  the  risk  of  meeting  his  displeasure. 

As  the  time  drew  nearer,  she  could  hardly  breathe.  She 
dared  not  approach  a  window,  lest  he  should  see  her  from  the 

Street.    She  dared  not  ^o  up  stairs  to  hide  her  emotion,  lest,  ip 


THE  INTERVAL  BEFORE  THE  MARRIAGE. 


409 


passing  out  at  the  door,  she  should  meet  him  unexpectedly  j 
besides  which  dread,  she  felt  as  though  she  never  could  come 
back  again  if  she  were  summoned  to  his  presence.  In  this 
conflict  of  her  fears,  she  was  sitting  by  Cleopatra's  couch, 
endeavoring  to  understand  and  to  reply  to  the  bald  discourse 
of  that  lady,  when  she  heard  his  foot  upon  the  stair. 

"  I  hear  him  now !  "  cried  Florence,  starting.  "  He  is 
coming ! " 

Cleopatra,  who  in  her  juvenility  was  always  playfully  dis- 
posed, and  who  in  her  self-engrossment  did  not  trouble  herself 
about  the  nature  of  this  agitation,  pushed  Florence  behind  her 
couch,  and  dropped  a  shawl  over  her,  preparatory  to  giving  Mr. 
Dombey  a  rapture  of  surprise.  It  was  so  quickly  done,  that  in 
a  moment  Florence  heard  his  awful  step  in  the  room. 

He  saluted  his  intended  mother-in-law,  and  his  intended 
bride.  The  strange  sound  of  his  voice  thrilled  through  the 
whole  frame  of  his  child. 

"  My  dear  Dombey,"  said  Cleopatra,  "  come  here  and  tell 
me  how  your  pretty  Florence  is." 

"  Florence  is  very  well,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  advancing  to- 
wards the  couch. 

"  At  home?  " 

"  At  home,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  My  dear  Dombey,"  returned  Cleopatra,  with  bewitching 
vivacity ;  "  Now  are  you  sure  you  are  not  deceiving  me .-'  I 
don't  know  what  my  dearest  Edith  will  say  to  me  when  I  make 
such  a  declaration,  but  upon  my  honor  I  am  afraid  you  are  the 
falsest  of  men,  my  dear  Dombey." 

Though  he  had  been  ;  and  had  been  detected  on  the  spot, 
in  the  most  enormous  falsehood  that  was  ever  said  or  done  ; 
he  could  hardly  have  been  more  disconcerted  than  he  was, 
when  Mrs.  Skewton  plucked  the  shawl  away,  and  Florence, 
pale  and  trembling,  rose  before  him  like  a  ghost.  He  had  not 
yet  recovered  his  presence  of  mind,  when  Florence  had  run  up 
to  him,  clasped  her  hands  round  his  neck,  kissed  his  face,  and 
hurried  out  of  the  room.  He  looked  round  as  if  to  refer  the 
matter  to  somebody  else,  but  Edith  had  gone  after  Florence, 
instantly. 

"  Now,  confess,  my  dear  Dombey,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton, 
giving  him  her  hand,  "that  you  never  were  more  surprised  and 
pleased  in  your  life." 

"  I  never  was  more  surprised,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  Nor  pleased,  my  dearest  Dombey  ?  "  returned  Mrs.  Skew- 
ton,  holding  up  her  fan. 


^,^  DOM  BEY  AND  SON. 

*'  T — ^)'es,  I  am  exceedingly  glad  to  meet  Florence  here, 
said  Mr.  Dombey.     He  appeared  to  consider  gravely  aboul  it 
for  a  moment,  and  then  said,  more  decidedly,  "  Yes,  I  really 
am  very  glad  indeed  to  meet  Florence  here." 

"  You  wonder  how  she  comes  here  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Skewton 
don't  you  ? " 

"  Edith,  perhaps — "  suggested  Mr.  Dombe}-. 

"  Ah  !  wicked  guesser !  "  replied  Cleopatra,  shaking  her 
head.  "  Ah  !  cunning,  cunning  man  !  One  shouldn't  tell  these 
things  ;  your  sex,  my  dear  Dombey,  are  so  vain,  and  so  apt  to 
abuse  our  weaknesses  :  but  you  know  my  open  soul — very  well  \ 
immediately." 

This  was  addressed  to  one  of  the  very  tall  young  men  who 
announced  dinner. 

"  But  Edith,  my  dear  Dombey,"  she  continued  in  a  whisper, 
"  when  she  cannot  have  you  near  her — and  as  I  tell  her,  she 
cannot  expect  that  always — will  at  least  have  near  her  some- 
thing or  somebody  belonging  to  you.  Well,  how  extremely 
natural  that  is  !  And  in  this  spirit,  nothing  would  keep  her 
from  riding  oJif  to-day  to  fetch  our  darling  Florence.  Well,  how 
excessively  charming  that  is  !  " 

As  she  waited  for  an  answer,  Mr.  Dombey  answered, 
"  Eminently  so." 

"  Bless  you,  my  dear  Dombey,  for  that  proof  of  heart ! " 
cried  Cleopatra,  squeezing  his  hand.  "  But  I  am  growing  too 
serious !  Take  me  down  stairs,  like  an  angel,  and  let  us  see 
what  these  people  intend  to  give  us  for  dinner.  Bless  you, 
dear  Dombey  1  " 

Cleopatra  skipping  off  her  couch  with  tolerable  briskness, 
after  the  last  benediction,  Mr.  Dombey  took  her  arm  in  his  and 
led  her  ceremoniously  down  stairs  ;  one  of  the  very  tall  young 
men  on  hire,  whose  organ  of  veneration  was  imperfectly  devel- 
oped, thrusting  his  tongue  into  his  cheek,  for  tlie  entertainment 
of  the  other  very  tall  young  man  on  hire,  as  the  couple  turned 
into  the  dining-room. 

Florence  and  Edith  were  already  there,  and  sitting  side  by 
side.  Florence  would  have  risen  when  her  father  entered,  to 
resign  her  chair  to  him  ;  but  Edith  openly  put  her  hand  upon 
her  arm,  and  Mr.  Dombey  took  an  opposite  place  at  the  round 
table. 

The  conversation  was  almost  entirely  sustained  by  Mrs. 
Skewton.  Florence  hardly  dared  to  raise  her  eyes,  lest  they 
should  reveal  the  traces  of  tears  ;  far  less  dared  to  speak  ;  and 
Edith  never  uttered  one  word,  unless  id  answer  to  a  questioa. 


THE  INTERVAL  13EE0KE  THE  MAkRIAGE.        411 

Verily,  Cleopatra  worked  hard,  for  the  establishment  that  was 
so  nearly  clutched  ;  and  verily  it  slujuld  have  been  a  rich  one 
to  reward  her  ! 

"  And  so  your  preparations  are  nearly  finished  at  last,  my 
dear  Dombey  ?  "  said  Cleopatra,  when  the  dessert  was  put  upon 
the  table,  and  the  silver-headed  butler  had  withdrawn.  "  Even 
the  lawyer's  preparations  !  " 

"  Yes,  madam,"  replied  Mr.  Dombey  ;  "  the  deed  of  settle- 
ment, the  professional  gentlemen  inform  me,  is  now  ready,  and 
as  I  was  mentioning  to  you,  Edith  has  only  to  do  us  the  favor 
to  suggest  her  own  time  for  its  execution." 

Edith  sat  like  a  handsome  statue  ;  as  cold,  as  silent,  and  as 
still. 

"  My  dearest  love,"  said  Cleopatra,  "  do  you  hear  what  Mr. 
Dombey  says  ?  Ah,  my  dear  Dombey  !  "  aside  to  that  gentle- 
miin,  "  How  her  absence,  as  the  time  approaches,  reminds  me 
of  the  days,  when  that  most  agreeable  of  creatures,  her  Papa, 
was  in  your  situation  !  " 

"  I  have  nothing  to  suggest.  It  shall  be  when  you  please," 
said  Edith,  scarcely  looking  over  the  table  at  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  I'o-morrow  ?  "  suggested  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  If  you  please." 

"  Or  would  next  day,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "suit  your  engage- 
ments better  ? " 

"  I  have  no  engagements.  I  am  always  at  your  disposal. 
Let  it  be  when  you  like." 

"  No  engagements,  my  dear  Edith ! "  remonstrated  her 
mother,  "  when  you  are  in  a  most  terrible  state  of  flurry  all  day 
long,  and  have  a  thousand  and  one  appointments  with  all  sorts 
of  tradespeople  !  " 

"  They  are  of  your  making,"  returned  Edith,  turning  on  her 
with  a  slight  contraction  of  her  brow.  "  You  and  Mr.  Dombey 
can  arrange  between  you." 

"  Very  true  indeed,  my  love,  and  most  considerate  of  you  !  " 
said  Cleopatra.  "  My  darling  Florence,  you  must  really  come 
and  kiss  me  once  more,  if  you  please,  my  dear !  " 

Singular  coincidence,  that  these  gushes  of  interest  in  Flor- 
ence hurried  Cleopatra  away  from  almost  every  dialogue  in 
which  Edith  had  a  share,  however  trifling  !  Florence  had  cer- 
tainly never  undergone  so  much  embracing,  and  perhaps  had 
never  been,  unconsciously,  so  useful  in  her  life. 

Mr.  Dombey  was  far  from  quarrelling,  in  his  own  breast, 
with  the  manner  of  his  beautiful  betrothed.  He  had  that  good 
reason  for  sympathy  with  haughtiness  and  coldness,  which  is 


412 


DOMliE  V  AiVD  SON. 


found  in  a  fellow-feeling.  It  flattered  him  to  think  how  these 
deferred  to  him,  in  Edith's  case,  and  seemed  to  have  no  will 
apart  from  his.  It  flattered  him  to  picture  to  himself,  this 
proud  and  stately  woman  doing  the  honors  of  his  house,  and 
chilling  his  guests  after  his  own  manner.  The  dignity  of 
Dombey  and  Son  would  be  heightened  and  maintained,  indeed, 
in  such  hands. 

So  thought  Mr.  Dombey,  when  he  was  left  aione  at  the  din- 
ing-table,  and  mused  upon  his  past  and  future  fortunes  ;  find- 
ing no  uncongeniality  in  an  air  of  scant  and  gloomy  state  that 
pervaded  the  room,  in  color  a.  dark  brown,  with  black  hatch- 
ments of  pictures  blotching  the  walls,  and  twenty-four  black 
chairs,  with  almost  as  many  nails  in  them  as  so  many  coffins, 
waiting  like  mutes,  upon  the  threshold  of  the  Turkey  carpet  ; 
and  two  exhausted  negroes  holding  up  two  withered  branches 
of  candelabra  on  the  sideboard,  and  a  musty  smell  prevailing 
as  if  the  ashes  of  ten  thousand  dinners  were  entombed  in  the 
sarcophagus  below  it.  The  owner  of  the  house  lived  much 
abroad  ;  the  air  of  England  seldom  agreed  long  with  a  member 
of  the  Feenix  family  ;  and  the  room  had  gradually  put  itself 
into  deeper  and  still  deeper  mourning  for  him,  until  it  was 
become  so  funereal  as  to  want  nothing  but  a  body  in  it  to  be 
quite  complete. 

No  bad  representation  of  the  body,  for  the  nonce,  in  his  un- 
bending form,  if  not  in  his  attitude,  Mr.  Dombey  looked  down 
into  the  cold  depths  of  the  dead  sea  of  mahogany  on  which  the 
fruit  dishes  and  decanters  lay  at  anchor :  as  if  the  subjects  of 
his  thoughts  were  rising  towards  the  surface  one  by  one,  and 
plunging  down  again.  Edith  was  there  in  all  her  majesty  of 
brow  and  figure  ;  and  close  to  her  came  Florence,  with  her 
timid  head  turned  to  him,  as  it  had  been,  for  an  instant,  when  she 
left  the  room  ;  and  Edith's  eyes  upon  her,  and  P^dith's  hand  put 
out  protectingly.  A  little  figure  in  a  low  arm-chair  came  spring- 
ing next  into  light,  and  looked  upon  him  wonderingly,  with  its 
bright  eyes  and  its  old-young  face,  gleaming  as  in  the  flickering 
of  an  evening  fire.  Again  came  Florence  close  upon  it,  and 
absorbed  his  whole  attention.  Whether  as  a  fore-doomed  diffi- 
culty and  disappointment  to  him  ;  whether  as  a  rival  who  had 
crossed  him  in  his  way,  and  might  again  ;  whether  as  his  child, 
of  whom,  in  his  successful  wooing,  he  could  stoop  to  think,  as 
claiming,  at  such  a  time,  to  be  no  more  estranged  ;  or  whether 
/  as  a  hint  to  him  that  the  mere  appearance  of  caring  for  his  own 
blood  should  be  maintained  in  his  new  relations  ;  he  best  knew. 
Indifferently  well,  perhaps,  at  best ;  for  marriage  company  and 


THE  TXTERVAL  BEFORE  THE  MARRIAGE.         413 

marriage  altars,  and  ambitious  scenes — still  blotted  here  and 
there  with  Florence — always  Florence — turned  up  so  fast,  and 
so  confusedly,  that  he  rose,  and  went  up  stairs,  to  escape  them. 

It  was  quite  late  at  night  before  candles  were  brought  ;  for 
at  present  they  made  Mrs.  Skewton's  head  ache,  she  complained  ; 
and  in  the  meantime  Horence  and  Mrs.  Skewton  talked  together 
(Cleopatra  being  very  anxious  to  keep  her  close  to  herself),  or 
Florence  touched  the  piano  softly  for  Mrs.  Skewton's  delight ; 
to  make  no  mention  of  a  few  occasions  in  the  course  of  the 
evening,  when  that  affectionate  lady  was  impelled  to  solicit  an- 
other kiss,  and  which  always  happened  after  Edith  had  said 
anything.  They  were  not  man)-,  however,  for  Edith  sat  apart 
by  an  open  window  during  the  whole  time  (in  spite  of  her 
mother's  fears  that  she  would  take  cold),  and  remained  there 
until  Mr.  Dombey  took  leave.  He  was  serenely  gracious  to 
Florence  when  he  did  so  ;  and  Florence  went  to  bed  in  a  room 
within  Edith's,  so  happy  and  hopeful,  that  she  thought  of  her 
late  self  as  if  it  were  some  other  poor  deserted  girl  who  was  to 
be  pitied  for  her  sorrow  ;  and  in  her  pity,  sobbed  herself  to 
sleep. 

The  week  fled  fast.  There  were  drives  to  milliners,  dress- 
makers, jewellers,  lawyers,  florists,  pastry-cooks ;  and  Florence 
was  always  of  the  party.  Florence  was  to  go  to  the  wedding. 
Florence  was  to  cast  off  her  moimiing,  and  to  wear  a  brilliant 
dress  on  the  occasion.  The  milliner's  intentions  on  the  sub- 
ject of  this  dress — the  milhner  was  a  Frenchwoman,  and  greatly 
resembled  Mrs.  Skewton — were  so  chaste  and  elegant,  that  Mrs. 
Skewton  bespoke  one  like  it  for  herself.  The  milliner  said  it 
tvould  become  her  to  admiration,  and  that  all  the  world  would 
take  her  for  the  young  lady's  sister. 

The  week  fled  faster.  '  Edith  looked  at  nothing  and  cared 
for  nothing.  Her  rich  dresses  came  home,  and  were  tried  on, 
and  were  loudly  commended  by  Mrs.  Skewton  and  the  milliners, 
and  were  put  away  without  a  word  from  her.  Mrs.  Skewton 
made  their  plans  for  every  day,  and  executed  them.  Sometimes 
Edith  sat  in  the  carriage  when  they  went  to  make  purchases  ; 
sometimes,  when  it  was  absolutely  necessary,  she  went  into  the 
shops.  But  Mrs.  Skewton  conducted  the  •A'hole  business, 
whatever  it  happened  to  be  ;  and  Ediih  looked  on  as  uninter- 
ested and  with  as  much  apparent  indifference  as  if  she  had  no 
concern  in  it.  Florence  might  perhaps  have  thought  she  was 
haughty  and  listless,  but  that  she  was  never  so  to  her.  So  Flor- 
ence quenched  her  wonder  in  her  gratitude  whenever  it  brol  € 
put,  an4  soon  subdued  it» 


414  DOME EY  AND  SON. 

The  week  fled  faster.  It  had  nearly  winged  its  flight  away. 
The  last  night  of  the  week,  the  night  before  the  marriage  was 
come.  In  the  dark  room— for  Mrs.  Skewton's  head  was  no 
better  yet,  though  she  expected  to  recover  permanently  to-mor- 
row— were  that  lady,  Edith,  and  Mr.  Dombey.  Edith  was  at 
her  open  window  looking  out  into  the  street ;  Mr.  Dombey  and 
Cleopatra  were  talking  softly  on  the  sofa.  It  was  growing  late; 
and  Florence  being  fatigued,  had  gone  to  bed. 

"  My  dear  Dombey,"  said  Cleopatra,  "  you  will  leave  me 
Florence  to-morrow,  when  you  deprive  me  of  my  sweetest 
Edith." 

Mr.  Dombey  said  he  w^ould,  with  pleasure. 

"  To  have  her  about  me,  here,  while  you  are  both  at  Parig, 
and  to  think  that  at  her  age,  I  am  assisting  in  the  formation 
of  her  mind,  my  dear  Dombey,"  said  Cleopatra,  "  will  be  a  per- 
fect balm  to  me  in  the  extremely  shattered  state  to  which  I 
shall  be  reduced." 

Edith  turned  her  head  suddenly.  Her  listless  manner  was 
exchanged,  in  a  moment,  to  one  of  burning  interest,  and,  un- 
seen in  the  darkness,  she  attended  closely  to  their  conversa 
tion. 

Mr.  Dombey  would  be  delighted  to  leave  Florence  in  such 
admirable  guardianship. 

"  My  dear  Dombey,"  returned  Cleopatra,  "  a  thousand 
thanks  for  your  good  opinion.  I  feared  you  were  going,  with 
malice  aforethought,  as  the  dreadful  lawyers  say — those  horrid 
proses ! — to  condemn  me  to  utter  solitude." 

"Why  do  me  so  great  an  injustice,  my  dear  madam  .'  "  said 
Mr.  Dombey. 

"  Because  my  charming  Florence  tells  me  so  positively  she 
nust  go  home  to-morrow,"  returned  Cleopatra,  "  that  I  began 
to  be  afraid,  my  dearest  Dombey,  you  were  quite  a  Bashaw." 

"  I  assure,  you  madam  !  "  said  IVfr.  Dombey,  "  I  have  laid  no 
commands  on  Florence  ;  and  if  I  had,  there  are  no  command, 
like  your  wish." 

"  My  dear  Dombey,"  replied  Cleopatra,  "  what  a  courtier 
you  are  !  Though  I'll  not  say  so,  either  ;  for  courtiers  have  no 
heart,  and  yours  pervades  your  charming  life  and  character. 
And  are  you  really  going  so  early,  my  dear  Dombey!  " 

Oh,  indeed  !  it  was  late,  and  Mr.  l^ombey  feared  he  must. 

"  Is  this  a  fact,  or  is  it  all  a  dream  ! "  lisped  Cleopatra. 
"  Can  I  believe,  my  dearest  Dombey,  that  you  are  coming  back 
to-morrow  morning  to  deprive  me  of  my  sweet  companion  j  my 
<)wn  Edith  I " 


THE  INTERVAL  BEFORE  THE  MARRIAGE.        415 

Mr,  Dombey,  who  was  accustomed  to  take  things  literally, 
reminded  Mrs.  Skewton  that  they  were  to  meet  first  at  the 
church. 

"The  pang,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  "of  consigning  a  child, 
even  to  you,  my  dear  Dombey,  is  one  of  the  most  excruciating 
imaginable ;  and  combined  with  a  naturally  delicate  constitu- 
tion, and  the  extreme  stupidity  of  the  pastry-cook  who  has  un- 
dertaken the  breakfast,  is  almost  too  much  for  my  poor  strength. 
But  I  shall  rally,  my  dear  Dombey,  in  the  morning  ;  do  not 
fear  for  me,  or  be  uneasy  on  my  account.  Heaven  bless  you  ! 
My  dearest  Edith  !  "  she  cried  archly.  "  Somebody  is  going, 
pet." 

Edith  who  had  turned  her  head  again  towards  the  window, 
and  whose  interest  in  their  conversation  had  ceased,  rose  up  in 
her  place,  but  made  no  advance  towards  him,  and  said  nothing. 
Mr.  Dombey,  with  a  lofty  gallantry  adapted  to  his  dignity  and 
the  occasion,  betook  his  creaking  boots  towards  her,  put  her 
hand  to  his  lips,  said,  "  To-morrow  morning  I  shall  have  the 
happiness  of  claiming  this  hand  as  Mrs.  Dombey's,"  and  bowed 
himself  solemnly  out. 

Mrs.  Skewton  rang  for  candles  as  soon  as  the  house  door 
had  closed  upon  him.  With  the  candles  appeared  her  maid, 
with  the  juvenile  dress  that  was  to  delude  the  world  to-morrow. 
The  dress  had  savage  retribution  in  it,  as  such  dresses  ever 
have,  and  made  her  infinitely  older  and  more  hideous  than  her 
greasy  flannel  gown.  But  Mrs.  Skewton  tried  it  on  with  minc- 
ing satisfaction;  smirked  at  her  cadaverous  self  in  the  glass, 
as  she  thought  of  its  killing  effect  upon  the  Major;  and  suffer- 
ing her  maid  to  take  it  off  again,  and  to  prepare  her  for  repose, 
tumbled  into  ruins  like  a  house  of  painted  cards. 

All  this  time,  Edith  remained  at  the  dark  window  looking 
out  into  the  street.  When  she  and  her  mother  were  at  last  left 
alone,  she  moved  from  it  for  the  first  time  that  evening,  and 
came  opposite  to  her.  The  yawning,  shaking,  peevish  figure  of 
the  mother,  with  her  eyes  raised  to  confront  the  proud  erect 
form  of  the  daughter,  whose  glance  of  fire  was  bent  downward 
upon  her,  had  a  conscious  air  upon  it,  that  no  levity  or  temper 
could  conceal. 

"  I  am  tired  to  death,"  said  she.  "  You  can't  be  trusted 
for  a  moment.  You  are  worse  than  a  child.  Child  !  No  child 
would  be  half  so  obstinate  and  undutiful." 

"  Listen  to  me,  mother,"  returned  Edith,  passing  these  words 
by  with  a  scorn  that  would  not  descend  to  trifle  with  them, 
"  You  must  remain  alon^  here  until  J  return." 


4 1 6  D OMDE  Y  AND  SON. 

"Must  remain  alone  here,  Edith,  until  j'ou  return!"  re 
peated  her  mother. 

"  Or  in  that  name  upon  which  I  shall  call  to-morrow  to  wit' 
ness  what  I  do,  so  falsely,  and  so  shamefully,  I  swear  I  will 
refuse  the  hand  of  this  man  in  the  church.  If  I  do  not,  may  I 
fall  dead  upon  the  pavement !  " 

The  mother  answered  with  a  look  of  quick  alarm,  in  no  de- 
gree dimioished  by  the  look  she  met. 

"  It  is  enough,"  said  Edith,  steadily,  "  that  we  are  what  we 
are.  I  Avill  have  no  youth  and  truth  dragged  down  to  my  level. 
I  will  have  no  guileless  nature  undermined,  corrupted,  and 
perverted,  to  amuse  the  leisure  of  a  world  of  mothers.  You 
know  my  meaning.     Florence  must  go  home." 

**  You  are  an  idiot,  Edith,"  cried  her  angry  mother.  "  Do 
you  expect  there  can  ever  be  peace  for  you  in  that  house,  till 
she  is  married,  and  away  ?  " 

"  Ask  me,  or  ask  yourself,  if  I  ever  expect  peace  in  that 
house,"  said  her  daughter,  "  and  you  know  the  answer." 

"  And  am  I  to  be  told  to-night,  after  all  my  pains  and  labor, 
and  when  you  are  going,  through  me,  to  be  rendered  indepen- 
dent," her  mother  almost  shrieked  in  her  passion,  while  her 
palsied  head  shook  like  a  leaf,  "  that  there  is  corruption  and 
contagion  in  me,  and  that  I  am  not  fit  company  for  a  girl ! 
What  are  you,  pray?     What  are  you  ?  " 

"  I  have  put  the  question  to  myself,"  said  Edith,  ashy  pale, 
and  pointing  to  the  window,  "  more  than  once  when  I  have 
been  sitting  there,  and  something  in  the  faded  likeness  of  my 
sex  has  wandered  past  outside  ;  and  God  knows  I  have  met 
with  my  reply.  Oil  mother,  mother,  if  you  had  but  left  me  to 
my  natural  heart  when  I  too  was  a  girl — a  younger  girl  than 
Florence — how  different  I  might  have  been  !  " 

Sensible  that  any  show  of  anger  was  useless  here,  her  mother 
restrained  herself,  and  fell  a  whimpering,  and  bewailed  that 
she  had  lived  too  lon^^,  and  that  her  only  child  had  cast  her  off, 
and  that  duty  towards  parents  was  forgotten  in  these  evil  days, 
and  that  she  had  heard  unnatural  taunts,  and  cared  for  life  no 
longer. 

"  If  one  is  to  go  on  living  through  continual  scenes  like 
this,"  she  whined,  "  I  am  sure  it  would  be  much  better  for  me 
to  think  of  some  means  of  putting  an  end  to  my  existence. 
Oh  !  The  idea  of  your  bei  ig  my  daughter,  Edith,  and  address- 
ing me  in  such  a  strain  ! " 

"Between  us,  mother,"  returned  Edith,  mournfully,  "the 
time  for  mutual  reproaches  is  past," 


IIIJL  INTERVAL  BEFORE  THE  MARRIAGE.        417 

"  Then  why  do  you  revive  it  ?  "  whimpered  her  mother. 
"  You  know  that  you  are  lacerating  me  in  the  cruelest  manner. 
You  know  how  sensitive  I  am  to  unkindness.  At  such  a  mo- 
ment, too,  when  I  have  so  much  to  think  of,  and  am  naturally 
anxious  to  appear  to  the  best  advantage  !  I  wonder  at  you, 
Edith.  To  make  your  mother  a  fright  upon  your  wedding- 
day  !  " 

Edith  bent  the  same  fixed  look  upon  her,  as  she  sobbed  and 
rubbed  her  eyes ;  and  said  in  the  same  low  steady  voice,  which 
had  neither  risen  nor  fallen  since  she  first  addressed  her.  "  I 
have  said  that  Florence  must  go  home." 

"  Let  her  go  !  "  cried  the  afflicted  and  affrighted  parent, 
hastily.  "  I  am  sure  I  am  willing  she  should  go.  What  is  the 
girl  to  me  ?  " 

"  She  is  so  much  to  me,  that  rather  than  communicate,  or 
suffer  to  be  communicated  to  her,  one  grain  of  the  evil  that 
is  in  my  breast,  mother,  I  would  renounce  you,  as  I  would  (if 
you  gave  me  cause)  renounce  him  in  the  church  to-morrow," 
replied  Edith.  "  Leave  her  alone.  She  shall  not,  while  I 
can  intr-rpose,  be  tampered  with  and  tainted  by  the  les- 
sons I  have  learned.  This  is  no  hard  condition  on  this  bitter 
night." 

"  If  you  had  proposed  it  in  a  filial  manner,  Edith,"  whined 
her  mother,  "  perhaps  not ;  very  likely  not.  But  such  ex- 
tremely cutting  words — " 

"They  are  past  and  at  an  end  between  us  now,"  said  Edith. 
"  Take  your  own  way,  mother ;  share  as  you  please  in  what 
you  have  gained ;  spend,  enjoy,  make  much  of  it  ;  and  be  as 
happy  as  you  will.  The  object  of  our  lives  is  won.  Henceforth 
let  us  wear  it  silently.  My  lips  are  closed  upon  the  past  from 
this  hour.  J  forgive  you  your  part  in  to-morrow's  wickedness. 
May  God  forgive  my  own  !  " 

Without  a  tremor  in  her  voice,  or  frame,  and  passing  onward 
with  a  foot  that  set  itself  upon  the  neck  of  every  soft  emotion, 
she  bade  her  mother  good-night,  and  repaired  to  her  own 
room. 

But  not  to  rest;  for  there  was  no  rest  in  the  tumult  of  her 
agitation  when  alone.  To  and  fro,  and  to  and  fro,  and  to  and 
fro  again,  five  hundred  times,  among  the  splendid  preparations 
for  her  adornment  on  the  morrow  ;  with  her  dark  hair  shaken 
down,  her  dark  eyes  flashing  with  a  raging  light,  her  broad 
white  bosom  red  with  the  cruel  grasp  of  the  relentless  hand 
with  which  she  spurned  it  from  her,  pacing  up  and  down  with 
an  averted  head,  as  if  she  would  avoid  the  sight  of  her  own  fair 


^  I  g  1)  OMBE  V  A  ND  SON. 

person,  and  divorce  herself  from  its  companionship.  Thus,  in 
the  dead  time  of  the  night  before  her  bridal,  Edith  Granger 
wrestled  with  her  unquiet  spirit,  tearless,  friendless,  silent, 
proud,  and  uncomplaining. 

At  length  it  happened  that  she  touched  the  open  door 
which  led  into  the  room  where  Florence  lay. 

She  started,  stopped,  and  looked  in. 

A  light  was  burning  there,  and  showed  her  Florence  in  her 
bloom  of  innocence  and  beauty,  fast  asleep.  Edith  held  her 
breath,  and  felt  herself  drawn  on  towards  her. 

Drawn  nearer,  nearer,  nearer  yet ;  at  last,  drawn  so  near, 
that  stooping  down,  she  pressed  her  lips  to  the  gentle  hand 
that  lay  outside  the  bed,  and  put  it  softly  to  her  neck.  Its 
touch  was  like  the  prophet's  rod  of  old  upon  the  rock.  Her 
tears  sprung  forth  beneath  it,  as  she  sunk  upon  her  knees,  and 
laid  her  aching  head  and  streaming  hair  upon  the  pillow  by  its 
side. 

Thus  Edith  Granger  passed  the  night  before  her  bridal. 
Thus  the  sun  found  her  on  her  bridal  morning. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

THE  WEDDING. 


Dawn,  with  its  passionless  blank  face,  steals  shivering  to 
the  church  beneath  which  lies  the  dust  of  little  Paul  and  his 
mother,  and  looks  in  at  the  windows.  It  is  cold  and  dark. 
Night  crouches  yet,  upon  the  pavement,  and  broods,  sombre  and 
heavy,  in  nooks  and  corners  of  the  building.  The  steeple-clock 
perched  up  above  the  houses,  emerging  from  beneath  another 
of  the  countless  ripples  in  the  tide  of  time  that  regularly  n)ll 
and  break  on  the  eternal  shore,  is  grayly  visible,  like  a  stone 
beacon,  recording  how  the  sea  Hows  on;  but  within  doors 
dawn,  at  first,  can  only  peep  at  night,  and  see  that  it  is  there. 

Hovering  feebly  round  the  church,  and  looking  in,  dawn 
moans  and  weeps  for  its  sliort  reign,  and  its  tears  trickle  on  the 
window-glass,  and  the  trees  against  the  church-wall  bow  their 
heads,  and  wring  their  many  hands  in  sympathy.  Night,  grow- 
ing pale  before  it,  gradually  fades  out  of  the  church,  but  lingers 
in  the  vaults  below,  and  sits  upon  the  cofiins.  \\\Ci  now  comes 
bright  day,  burnishing  the  steeple-clock,  and  reddening   the 


THE  WEDDrNG 


4rg 


spire,  and  drying  up  the  tears  of  dawn,  and  stifling  its  complain- 
ing ;  and  the  scared  dawn,  following  the  night,  and  chasing  it 
from  its  last  refuge,  shrinks  into  the  vaults  itself  and  hides,  with 
a  frightened  face,  among  the  dead,  until  night  returns,  refreshed, 
to  drive  it  out. 

And  now,  the  mice,  who  have  been  busier  with  the  prayer- 
books  than  their  proper  owners,  and  with  the  hassocks,  more 
worn  by  their  little  teeth  than  by  human  knees,  hide  their  bright 
eyes  in'their  holes,  and  gather  close  together  in  affright  at  the 
resounding  clashing  of  the  church-door.  For  the  beadle,  that 
man  of  power,  comes  early  this  morning  with  the  sexton  ;  and 
Mrs.  Miff,  the  weezy  little  pew-owner — a  mighty  dry  old  lady, 
sparely  dressed,  with  not  an  inch  of  fulness  anywhere  about 
her — is  also  here,  and  has  been  waiting  at  the  church-gate  half- 
an-hour,  as  her  place  is,  for  the  beadle. 

A  vinegary  face  has  Mrs.  Miff,  and  a  mortified  bonnet,  and 
eke  a  thirsty  soul  for  sixpences  and  shillings.  Beckoning  to 
stray  people  to  come  into  pews,  has  given  Mrs.  Miff  an  air  of 
mystery  ;  and  there  is  reservation  in  the  eye  of  Mrs.  Miff,  as  al- 
ways knowing  of  a  softer  seat,  but  having  her  suspicions  of  the 
fee.  There  is  no  such  fact  as  Mr.  Miff,  nor  has  there  been, 
these  twenty  years,  and  Mrs.  Miff  would  rather  not  allude  to 
him.  He  held  some  bad  opinions,  it  would  seem,  about  free 
seats  ;  and  though  Mrs.  Miff  hopes  he  may  be  gone  upwards, 
she  couldn't  positively  undertake  to  say  so. 

Busy  is  Mrs.  Miff  this  morning  at  the  church-door,  beating 
and  dusting  the  altar-cloth,  the  carpet,  and  the  cushions  ;  and 
much  has  Mrs.  Miff  to  say,  about  the  wedding  they  are  going 
to  have.  Mrs,  Miff  is  told,  that  the  new  furniture  and  altera- 
tions in  the  house  cost  full  five  thousand  pound  if  they  cost  a 
penny ;  and  Mrs.  Miff  has  heard,  upon  the  best  authority,  that 
the  lady  hasn't  got  a  sixpence  wherewithal  to  bless  herself. 
Mrs.  Miff  remembers,  likewise,  as  if  it  had  happened  yes- 
terday, the  first  wife's  funeral,  and  then  the  christening,  and 
then  the  other  funeral  ;  and  Mrs.  Miff  says,  by  the  bye,  she'll 
soap-and-water  that  'ere  tablet  presently,  against  the  company 
arrive.  Mr.  Sownds,  the  Beadle,  who  is  sitting  in  the  sun  upon 
the  church  step  all  this  time  (and  seldom  does  anything  else, 
except  in  cold  weather,  sitting  by  the  fire),  approves  of  Mrs. 
Miff's  discourse,  and  asks  if  Mrs.  Miff  has  heard  it  said,  that 
the  lady  is  uncommon  handsome  ?  The  information  Mrs.  Miff 
has  received,  being  of  this  nature,  Mr.  Sownds  the  Beadle,  who 
though  orthodox  and  corpulent,  is  still  an  admirer  of  female 
beauty,  observes,  with  unction,  yes,  he  liears  she  is  a  spanker 


^iC>  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

— an  expression  that  seems  somewhat  forcible  to  Mrs.  MiiT,  ox 
would,  from  any  lips  but  those  of  Mr,  Sownds  the  Beadle. 

In  Mr.  Dombey's  house,  at  this  same  time,  there  is  great  stir 
and  bustle,  more  especially  among  the  women  :  not  one  of  whom 
has  had  a  wink  of  sleep  since  four  o'clock,  and  all  of  whom 
were  full  dressed  before  six.  Mr.  Towlinson  is  an  object  of 
greater  consideration  than  usual  to  the  housemaid,  and  the  cook 
says  at  breakfast-time  that  one  wedding  makes  many,  which  the 
housemaid  can't  believe,  and  don't  think  true  at  all.  Mr.  Tow- 
linson reserves  his  sentiments  on  this  question  ;  being  rendered 
something  gloomy  by  the  engagement  of  a  foreigner  with  whisk- 
ers (Mr.  Towlinson  is  whiskedess),  who  has  been  hired  to  ac- 
company the  happy  pair  to  Paris,  and  who  is  busy  packing 
the  new  chariot.  In  respect  of  this  personage,  Mr.  Towlinson 
admits,  presently,  that  he  never  knew  of  any  good  that  ever 
come  of  foreigners  ;  and  being  charged  by  the  ladies  with  pre- 
judice, says  :  look  at  Bonaparte  who  was  at  tlie  head  of  'em, 
and  see  what  he  was  always  up  to  !  Which  the  housemaid  says 
is  very  true. 

The  pastry-cook  is  hard  at  work  in  the  funereal  room  in 
Brook  Street,  and  the  very  tall  young  men  are  busy  looking  on. 
Ore  of  the  very  tall  young  men  already  smells  of  slierry,  and  his 
eyes  have  a  tendency  to  become  fixed  in  his  head,  and  to  stare 
at  objects  without  seeing  them.  The  very  tall  young  man  is 
conscious  of  this  failing  in  himself ;  and  informs  his  comrade 
ihat  it's  his  "  exciseman."  The  very  tall  young  man  would  say 
excitement,  but  his  speech  is  hazy. 

The  men  who  play  the  bells  have  got  scent  of  the  marriage  ; 
and  the  marrow-bones  and  cleavers  too;  and  a  brass  band  too. 
The  first,  are  practicing  in  a  back  settlement  near  Battle-bridge  ; 
the  second,  put  themselves  in  communication,  through  their 
chief,  with  Mr.  Towlinson,  to  whom  they  offer  terms  to  be 
bought  off ;  and  the  third,  in  the  person  of  an  artful  trombone, 
lurks  and  dodges  round  the  corner,  waiting  for  some  traitor 
tradesman  to  reveal  the  place  and  hour  of  breakfast,  for  a  bribe. 
Expectation  and  excitement  extend  further  yet,  and  take  a 
wider  range.  From  Balls  Bond,  Mr.  Perch  brings  Mrs.  Perch 
to  spend  the  day  with  Mr.  Dombey's  servants,  and  accompany 
them,  surreptiously,  to  see  the  wedding.  In  Mr.  Toots's  lodg- 
ings, Mr.  Toots  attires  himself  as  if  he  were  at  least  the  Bride- 
groom :  determined  to  behold  the  spectacle  in  splendor  from  a 
secret  corner  of  the  gallery,  and  thither  to  convey  the  Chicken  : 
for  it  is  Mr.  Toots's  desperate  intent  to  point  out  Florence  to 
the  Chicken,  then  and  there,  and  openly  to  say,  "  Now,  Chicken, 


THE  WEDDING.  42 1 

I  will  not  deceive  you  any  longer ;  the  friend  I  have  sometimes 
mentioned  to  you  is  myself  ;  Miss  Dombey  is  the  object  of  my 
passion  ;  what  are  your  opinions,  Chicken,  in  this  state  of 
things,  and  what,  on  the  spot,  do  you  advise  ?  "  The  so-much- 
to-be-astonished  Chicken,  in  the  meanwhile,  dips  his  beak  into 
a  tankard  of  strong  beer,  in  Mr.  Toots's  kitchen,  and  pecks  up 
iwo  pounds  of  beefsteaks.  In  Princess's  Place,  Miss  Tox  is  up 
and  doing;  for  she  too,  though  in  sore  distress,  is  resolved  to 
put  a  shilling  in  the  hands  of  Mrs.  Miff,  and  see  the  ceremony 
which  has  a  cruel  fascination  for  her,  from  some  lonely  corner. 
The  quarters  of  the  Wooden  Midshipman  are  all  alive  ;  for 
Captain  Cuttle,  in  his  ankle-jacks  and  with  a  huge  shirt-collar, 
is  seated  at  his  breakfast,  listening  to  Rob  the  Grinder  as  he 
reads  the  marriage  service  to  him  iDeforehand,  under  orders,  to 
the  end  that  the  Captain  may  perfectly  understand  the  solem- 
nity he  is  about  to  witness  :  for  which  purpose,  the  Captain 
gravely  lays  injunctions  on  his  chaplain,  from  time  to  time,  to 
"  put  about,"  or  to  "  overhaul  that  '  ere  article  again,"  or  to 
stick  to  his  own  duty,  and  leave  the  Amens  to  him,  the  Cap- 
tain ;  one  of  which  he  repeats,  whenever  a  pause  is  made  by 
Rob  the  Grinder,  with  sonorous  satisfaction. 

Besides  all  this,  and  much  more,  twenty  nursery-maids  in 
Mr.  Dombey's  street  alone,  have  promised  twenty  families  of 
little  women,  whose  instinctive  interest  in  nuptials  dates  from 
their  cradles,  that  they  shall  go  and  see  the  marriage.  Truly, 
Mr.  Sownds  the  Beadle  has  good  reason  to  feel  himself  in 
office,  as  he  suns  his  portly  figure  on  the  church  steps,  waiting 
for  the  marriage-hour.  Truly,  Mrs.  Miff  has  cause  to  pounce 
on  an  unlucky  dwarf  child,  with  a  giant  baby,  who  peeps  in  at 
the  porch,  and  drive  her  forth  with  indignation! 

Cousin  Feenix  has  come  over  from  abroad,  expressly  to  at- 
tend the  marraige.  Cousin  Feenix  was  a  man  about  town, 
forty  years  ago  ;  but  he  is  still  so  juvenile  in  figure  and  in  man- 
ner, and  so  well  got  up,  that  strangers  are  amazed  when  they 
discover  latent  wrinkles  in  his  lordship's  face,  and  crows'  feet 
in  his  eyes  ;  and  first  observe  him,  not  exactly  certain  when  he 
walks  across  a  room,  of  going  quite  straight  to  where  he  wants 
to  go.  But  Cousin  Feenix,  getting  up  at  half-past  seven  o'clock 
or  so,  is  quite  another  thing  from  Cousin  Feenix  got  up ;  and 
very  dim,  indeed,  he  looks,  while  being  shaved  at  Long's  Hotel, 
in  Bond  Street. 

Mr.  Dombey  leaves  his  dressing-room,  amidst  a  general 
whisking  away  of  the  women  on  the  staircase,  who  disperse  in 
all  directions,  with  a  great  rustling  of  skirts,  except  Mrs,  Perch, 


4^2  DOMBEY  AXD  SON. 

who,  being  (but  that  she  always  is)  in  an  interesting  situation, 
is  not  nimble,  and  is  obliged  to  face  him,  and  is  ready  to  sink 
with  confusion  as  she  curtseys ; — may  Heaven  avert  all  evil 
consequences  from  the  house  of  Perch  !  Mr.  Dombey  walks 
up  to  the  drawing-room,  to  bide  his  time.  Gorgeous  are  Mr. 
Dombey's  new  blue  coat,  fawn-colored  pantaloons,  and  lilac 
waistcoat ;  and  a  whisper  goes  about  the  house,  that  Mr.  Dom- 
bey's hair  is  curled. 

A  double  knock  announces  the  arrival  of  the  Major,  who  is 
gorgeous  too,  and  wears  a  whole  geranium  in  his  button-hole, 
and  has  his  hair  curled  tight  and  crisp,  as  well  the  Native 
knows. 

"  Dombey  !  "  says  the  Major,  putting  out  both  hands,  "  How 
are  you  ? " 

"  Major,"  says  Mr.  Dombey,  "  how  are  you  !  " 

"By  Jove,  Sir,"  says  the  Major,  "  Joey  B.  is  in  such  case 
this  morning.  Sir," — and  here  he  hits  himself  hard  upon  the 
breast — "in  such  case  this  morning.  Sir,  that, damme,  Dombey, 
he  has  half  a  mind  to  make  a  double  marriage  of  it.  Sir,  and 
take  the  mother." 

Mr.  D  jmbey  smiles  ;  but  faintly,  even  for  him,  for  Mr. 
Dombey  feels  that  he  is  going  to  be  related  to  the  mother,  and 
that,  under  those  circumstances,  she  is  not  to  be  joked  about. 

"  Dombey,"  says  the  M  <joi",  seeing  this,  "  I  give  you  joy. 
I  congratulate  you,  Dombey.  By  the  Lord,  sir,''  says  the  Ma- 
jor, "you  are  more  to  be  envied,  this  day,  than  any  man  in 
England!" 

Here  again  Mr.  Dombey's  assent  is  qualified  ;  because  he 
is  going  to  confer  a  great  distinction  on  a  lady:  and,  no  doubt, 
she  is  to  be  envied  most. 

"As  to  Edith  Granger,  Sir,"  pursues  the  Major,  "there  is 
not  a  woman  in  all  Europe  but  might — and  would.  Sir,  you  will 
allow  Bagstock  to  add— and  would  give  her  ears,  and  her  ear- 
ings,  too,  to  be  in  Edith  Granger's  place." 

"You  are  good  enough  to  say  so.  Major,"  says  Mr.  Dom- 
bey. 

'•Dombey"  returns  the  Major,  "you  know  it.  Let  us  have 
no  false  delicacy.  You  know  it.  Do  yo  i  know  it,  or  do  you 
not,  Dombey?"  says  the  Major,  almost  in  a  passion. 

"  Oh,  really  Major — " 

**  Damme,  Sir,"  retorts  the  Major,  "do  you  know  that  fact, 
or  do  you  not?  Dombey!  Is  old  Joe  your  friend  ?  Are  we  on 
that  footing  of  unreserved  intimacy,  Dombey,  that  may  justify 
i\  man— a  blunt  old  Joseph  B.,  Sir — in  speaking  out;  or  am  I 


ThE  WEDDING.  41>3 

to  take  Open  order,  Dombey,  and  to  keep  my  distance,  and  to 
stand  on  forms  ?  " 

"  My  dear  Major  Bagstock,"  says  Mr.  Dombey.  with  a  grati- 
fied air,  "  you  are  quite  warm." 

"  By  Gad,  Sir,"  says  the  Major,  "  I  am  warm.  Joseph  B. 
does  not  deny  it,  Dombey,  He  is  warm.  This  is  an  occasion, 
Sir,  that  calls  forth  all  the  honest  sympathies  remaining  in  an 
old  infernal,  battered,  used  up,  invalided,  J.  B.  carcase.  And 
I  tell  you  what,  Dombey — at  such  a  time  a  man  must  blurt  out 
what  he  feels,  or  put  a  muzzle  on  ;  and  Joseph  Bagstock  tells 
you  to  your  face,  Dombey,  as  he  tells  his  club  behind  your  back, 
that  he  never  will  be  muzzled  when  Paul  Dombey  is  in  question, 
Now,  damme,  Sir,"  concludes  the  Major  with  great  firmness. 
"  what  do  you  make  of  that  ?  " 

"  Major,"  says  Mr.  Dombey,  "  I  assure  you  that  I  am  really 
obliged  to  you.  I  had  no  idea  of  checking  your  too  partial 
friendship." 

"Not  too  partial.  Sir,"  exclaims  the  choleric  Major. 
*'  Dombey,  I  deny  it." 

"  Your  friendship  I  will  say  then,"  pursues  Mr.  Dombey, 
"on  any  account.  Nor  can  I  forget.  Major,  on  such  an  occa- 
sion as  the  present,  how  much  I  am  indebted  to  it." 

"  Dombey,"  says  the  Major,  with  appropriate  action,  "  that 
is  the  hand  of  Joseph  Bagstock  :  of  plain  old  Joey  B.,  Sir,  if 
you  like  that  better !  That  is  the  hand  of  which  His  Royal 
Highness  the  late  Duke  of  York  did  me  the  honor  to  observe, 
Sir,  to  His  Royal  Highness  the  late  Duke  of  Kent,  that  it  was 
the  hand  of  Josh  :  a  rough  and  tough,  and  possibly  an  up-to- 
snuff,  old  vagabond.  Dombey,  may  the  present  moment  be  the 
least  unhappy  of  our  lives.     God  bless  you  !  " 

Now  enters  Mr.  Carker,  gorgeous  likewise,  and  smiling  like 
a  wedding-guest  indeed.  He  can  scarcely  let  Mr.  Dombey's 
hand  go,  he  is  so  congratulatory ;  and  he  shakes  the  Major's 
hand  so  heartily  at  the  same  time,  that  his  voice  shakes  too,  in 
accord  with  his  arms,  as  it  comes  sliding  from  between  his 
teeth. 

"The  very  day  is  auspicious,"  says  Mr.  Carker.  "The 
brightest  and  most  genial  weather  !  I  hope  I  am  not  a  mo- 
ment late  ? " 

"  Punctual  to  your  time.  Sir,"  says  the  Major. 

"  I  am  rejoiced,  I  am  sure,"  says  Mr.  Carker.  "  I  was 
afraid  I  might  be  a  few  seconds  after  the  appointed  time,  for  I 
was  delayed  by  a  procession  of  wagons ;  and  I  took  the  lib- 
erty of  ridi.ig  lound  i(  Brook  Street  "—this  to  Mr.  Dombey— 


424 


DOMI^EY  AXD  SOjV. 


**lo  leave  a  few  ))oor  rarities  of  flowers  for  Afrs.  Dombey.  A 
man  in  my  position,  and  so  distinguished  as  to  be  invited  here, 
is  proud  to  offer  some  homage  in  acknowledgment  of  his  vas- 
salage :  and  as  I  have  no  doubt  Mrs.  Dombey  is  overwhelmed 
with  what  is  costly  and  magnificent  ;  "  with  a  strange  glance  at 
his  patron;  "  I  hope  the  very  poverty  of  my  offering,  m;.;.  lind 
favor  for  it." 

"  Mrs.  Dombey,  that  is  to  be,"  returns  Mr.  Dombey,  conde- 
scendingly "  will  be  very  sensible  of  your  attention,  Carker,  I 
am  sure." 

"And  if  she  is  to  be  Mrs.  Dombey  this  morning,  Sir,"  says 
the  Major,  putting  down  his  coffee-cup,  and  looking  at  his  watch, 
•  it's  high  time  we  were  off  !  " 

Forth,  in  a  barouche,  ride  Mr.  Dombey,  Major  Bagstock, 
and  Mr.  Carker,  to  the  church.  Mr.  Sownds  the  Beadle  has 
long  risen  from  the  steps,  and  is  in  waiting  with  his  cocked  hat 
in  his  hand.  Mrs.  Miff  curtseys  and  proposes  chairs  in  the 
vestry.  Mr.  Dombey  prefers  remaining  in  the  church.  As  he 
looks  up  at  the  organ,  Miss  Tox  in  the  gallery  shrinks  behind 
the  fat  leg  of  a  cherub  on  a  monument,  with  cheeks  like  a  j'oung 
Wind.  Captain  Cuttle,  on  the  contrary,  stands  up  and  waives 
his  hook,  in  token  of  welcome  and  encouragement.  Mr.  Toots 
informs  the  Chicken,  behind  his  hand,  that  the  middle  gentle- 
man, he  in  the  fawn-colored  pantaloons,  is  the  father  of  his 
love.  The  Chicken  hoarsely  whispers  Mr.  Toots  that  he's  as 
stiff  a  cove  as  ever  he  see,  but  that  it  is  within  the  resources  of 
Science  to  double  him  up,  with  one  blow  in  the  waistcoat. 

Mr.  Sownds  and  Mrs.  Miff  are  eyeing  Mr.  Dombey  from  a 
little  distance,  when  the  noise  of  approaching  wheels  is  heard, 
and  Mr.  Sownds  goes  out,  Mrs.  Aliff,  meeting  Mr.  Dombey's 
eye  as  it  is  withdrawn  from  the  presumptuous  maniac  up  stairs, 
who  salutes  him  with  so  much  urbanity,  drops  a  curtsey,  and 
informs  him  that  she  believes  his  "good  lady"  is  come.  Then 
there  is  a  crowding  and  a  whispering  at  the  door,  and  the  good 
lady  enters,  with  a  haughty  step. 

There  is  no  sign  ui)on  her  face,  of  last  night's  suffering  ; 
there  is  no  trace  in  her  manner,  of  the  woman  on  the  bended 
knees  reposing  her  wild  head,  in  beautiful  abandonment,  upon 
the  pillow  of  the  sleeping  girl.  That  girl,  all  gentle  and 
lovely,  is  at  her  side — a  striking  constrast  to  her  own  disdain- 
ful and  defiant  figure,  standing  there,  composed,  erect,  inscrut 
able  of  will,  resplendent  and  majestic  in  the  zenith  of  its 
charms,  yet  beating  down,  and  treading  on.  the  admiration  that 
it  challenges. 


THE  WEDDING.  425 

There  is  a  pause  while  Mr.  Sownds  the  Beadle  glides  into 
the  vestry  for  the  clergyman  and  clerk.  At  this  juncture,  Mrs. 
Skewton  speaks  to  Mr.  Dombey  ;  more  distinctly  and  emphati- 
cally than  her  custom  is,  and  moving  at  the  same  time,  close 
to  Edith. 

*  My  dear  Dombey,"  says  the  good  Mama,  "  I  fear  I  must 
relinquish  darling  P'lorence  after  all,  and  suffer  her  to  go  home, 
as  she  herself  proposed.  After  my  loss  of  to-day,  my  dear 
Dombey,  I  feel  1  shall  not  have  spirits,  even  for  her  society." 

"  Had  she  not  better  stay  with  you.''  "  returned  the  Bride- 
groom. 

"  I  think  not,  my  dear  Dombey.  No,  I  think  not.  I  shall 
be  better  alone.  Besides,  my  dearest  Edith  will  be  her  natural 
and  constant  guardian  when  you  return,  and  I  had  better  not 
encroach  upon  her  trust,  perhaps.  She  might  be  jealous.  Eh, 
dear  Edith." 

The  affectionate  Mama  presses  her  daughter's  arm,  as  she 
says  this  ;  perhaps  entreating  her  attention  earnestly. 

"To  be  serious,  my  dear  Dombey,"  she  resumes,  "I  will 
relinquish  our  dear  child,  and  not  inflict  my  gloom  upon  her. 
We  have  settled  that,  just  now.  She  fully  understands,  dear 
Dombey.     Edith,  my  dear,  she  fully  understands." 

Again,  the  good  mother  presses  her  daughter's  arm.  Mr. 
Dombey  offers  no  additional  remonstrance  :  for  the  clergyman 
and  clerk  appear  ;  and  Mrs.  Miff,  and  Mr.  Sownds  the  Beadle, 
group  the  party  in  their  proper  places  at  the  altar  rails. 

"  Who  giveth  this  woman  to  be  married  to  this  man  ? " 

Cousin  Feenix  does  that.  He  has  come  from  Baden-Baden 
on  purpose.  "  Confound  it,"  Cousin  Feenix  says — good-na- 
tured creature.  Cousin  Feenix — "  when  we  do  get  a  rich  City 
fellow  into  the  family,  let  us  show  him  some  attention ;  let  us 
do  something  for  him." 

"  /  give  this  woman  to  be  married  to  this  man,"  saith 
Cousin  Feenix  therefore.  Cousin  Feenix,  meaning  to  go  in  a 
straight  line,  but  turning  off  sideways  by  reason  of  his  wilful 
legs,  gives  the  wrong  woman  to  be  married  to  this  man  at  first — 
to  wit,  a  bridesmaid  of  some  condition,  distantly  connected  Avith 
the  family,  and  ten  years  Mrs,  Skewton's  junior — but  Mrs. 
Miff,  interposing  her  mortified  bonnet,  dexterously  turns  him 
back,  and  runs  him,  as  on  castors,  full  at  the  "  good  lady  : " 
whom  Cousin  Feenix  giveth  to  be  married  to  this  man  accord 
ingly. 

And  will  they  in  the  sight  of  heaven — ? 


426  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

Ay,  that  they  will :  Mr.  Dombey  says  he  will.  And  what 
says  Edith  .^     She  will. 

So,  from  that  day  forward,  for  better  for  worse,  for  richei 
for  poorer,  in  sickness  and  in  health,  to  love  and  to  cherish, 
till  death  do  them  part,  they  plight  their  troth  to  one  another, 
and  are  married. 

In  a  firm,  free  hand,  the  Bride  subscribes  her  name  in  the 
register,  when  they  adjourn  to  the  vestry,  "  There  an't  a 
many  ladies  comes  here,"  Mrs.  Miff  says  with  a  curtsey — to 
look  at  Mrs.  Miff,  at  such  a  season,  is  to  make  her  mortified 
bonnet  go  down  with  a  dip — "  writes  their  name  like  this  good 
lady !  "  Mr.  Sownds  the  Beadle  thinks  it  is  a  truly  spanking 
signature,  and  worthy  of  the  writer — this,  however,  between 
himself  and  conscience. 

Florence  signs  too,  but  unapplauded,  for  her  hand  shakes. 
All  the  party  sign  ;  Cousin  Feenix  last ;  who  puts  his  noble 
name  into  a  wrong  place,  and  enrolls  himself  as  having  been 
born  that  morning. 

The  Major  now  salutes  the  Bride  right  gallantly,  and  car- 
ries out  that  branch  of  military  tactics  in  reference  to  all  the 
ladies  :  notwithstanding  Mrs.  Skewton's  being  extremely  hard 
to  kiss,  and  squeaking  shrilly  in  the  sacred  edifice.  The  ex- 
ample is  followed  by  Cousin  Feenix,  and  even  by  Mr.  Dom- 
bey. Lastly,  Mr.  Carker,  with  his  white  teeth  glistening 
approaches  Edith,  more  as  if  he  meant  to  bite  her,  than  to 
taste  the  sweets  that  linger  on  her  lips. 

There  is  a  glow  upon  her  proud  cheek,  and  a  flashing  in 
her  eyes,  that  may  be  meant  to  stay  him  ;  but  it  does  not,  for 
he  salutes  her  as  the  rest  have  done,  and  wishes  her  all  happi- 
ness. 

"  If  wishes,"  says  he  in  a  low  voice,  "  are  not  superfluous, 
applied  to  such  a  union." 

"  I  thank  you.  Sir,"  she  answers,  with  a  curled  lip,  and  a 
heaving  bosom. 

But,  does  Edith  feel  still,  as  on  the  night  when  she  knew 
that  Mr.  Dombey  would  return  to  ofi^er  his  alliance,  that  Car- 
ker knows  her  thoroughly,  and  reads  her  right,  and  that  she  is 
more  degraded  by  his  knowledge  of  her,  than  by  aught  else  ? 
It  is  for  this  reason  that  her  haughtiness  shrinks  beneath  his 
smile,  like  snow  within  the  hand  that  grasps  it  firmly,  and  that 
her  imperious  glance  droops  in  meeting  his,  and  seeks  the 
ground  ? 

"  I  am  proud  to  see,"  says  Mr.  Carker,  with  a  servile  stoop- 
ing of  his  neck,  which  the   revelations  making  by  his  eyes 


THE   WEDDIXG.  427 

and  teeth  proclaim  to  be  a  lie,  "  I  am  proud  to  see  that  my 
humble  offering  is  graced  by  Mrs.  Dombey's  hand,  and  per- 
mitted to  hold  so  favored  a  place  on  so  joyful  an  occasion. 

Though  she  bends  her  head,  in  answer,  there  is  something 
in  the  momentary  action  of  her  hand,  as  if  she  would  crush  the 
flowers  it  holds,  and  fling  them,  with  contempt,  upon  the 
ground.  But,  she  puts  the  hand  through  the  arm  of  her  new 
husband,  who  has  been  standing  near,  conversing  with  the 
Major,  and  is  proud  again,  and  motionless,  and  silent. 

The  carriages  are  once  more  at  the  church  door.  Mr.  Dom- 
bey,  with  his  bride  upon  his  arm,  conducts  her  through  the 
twenty  families  of  little  women  who  are  on  the  steps,  and  every 
one  of  whom  remembers  the  fashion  and  the  color  of  her  every 
article  of  dress  from  that  moment,  and  reproduces  it  on  her 
doll,  who  is  for  ever  being  married.  Cleopatra  and  Cousin 
Feenix  enter  the  same  carriage.  The  Major  hands  in  a  second 
carriage,  Florence,  and  the  bridesmaid  who  so  narrowly  es- 
cape being  given  away  by  mistake,  and  then  enters  it  himself, 
and  is  followed  by  Mr.  Carker.  Horses  prance  and  caper  ; 
coachmen  and  footmen  shine  in  flutter  favors,  flowers,  and 
new-made  liveries.  Away  they  dash  and  rattle  through  the 
streets  :  and  as  they  pass  along,  a  thousand  heads  are  turned 
to  look  at  them,  and  a  thousand  sober  moralists  revenge  them- 
selves for  not  being  married  too,  that  morning,  by  reflecting 
that  these  people  little  think  such  happiness  can't  last. 

Miss  Tox  emerges  from  behind  the  cherub's  leg,  when  all 
is  quiet,  and  comes  slowly  down  from  the  gallery.  Miss  Tox's 
eyes  are  red,  and  her  pocket-handkerchief  is  damp.  She  is 
wounded,  but  not  exasperated,  and  she  hopes  they  mnybe  hap- 
py. She  quite  admits  to  herself  the  beauty  of  the  bride,  and 
her  own  comparatively  feeble  and  faded  attractions  ;  but  the 
stately  image  of  Afr.  Dombey  in  his  lilac  waistcoat,  and  his 
fawn-colored  pantaloons,  is  present  to  her  mind,  and  Miss  Tox 
weeps  afresh,  behind  her  veil,  on  her  way  home  to  Princess's 
Place.  Captain  Cuttle,  having  joined  in  all  the  aniens  and 
responses,  with  a  devout  growl,  feels  much  improved  by  his  re- 
ligious exercise  ;  and  in  a  peaceful  frame  of  mind,  pervades 
the  body  of  the  church,  glazed  hat  in  hand,  and  reads  the 
tablet  to  the  memory  of  little  Paul.  The  gallant  Mr.  Toots, 
attended  by  the  faithful  Chicken,  leaves  the  building  in  tor- 
ments of  love.  The  Chicken  is  as  yet  unable  to  elaborate  a 
scheme  for  winning  Florence,  but  his  first  idea  has  gained  pos- 
session of  him,  and  he  thinks  the  doubling  up  of  Mr.  Dombej 
would  be  a  move  m  the  right  direction.     Mr.  Dombey's  ser- 


428  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

vants  come  out  of  their  hiding-places,  and  prepare  to  rush  ta 
Brook  Street,  when  tliey  are  delayed  by  symptoms  of  indis- 
position  on  the  part  of  Mrs.  Perch,  who  entreats  a  glass  of 
water,  and  becomes  alarming;  Mrs.  Perch  gets  better  soon, 
however,  and  is  borne  away ;  and  Mrs.  Mift,  and  Mr.  Sownds 
the  Beadle,  sit  upon  the  steps  to  count  what  they  have  gained 
by  the  affair,  and  talk  it  over,  while  the  sexton  tolls  a  funeral. 

Now,  the  carriages  arrive  at  the  Bride's  residence,  and  the 
players  on  the  bells  begin  to  jingle,  and  the  band  strikes  up, 
and  Mr.  Punch,  that  model  of  connubial  bliss  salutes  his  wife. 
Now,  the  people  run  and  push,  and  press  round  in  a  gaping 
throng,  while  Mr.  Dombey,  leading  Mrs.  Dombey  by  the  hand, 
advances  solemnly  into  the  Feenix  Halls.  Now,  the  rest  of 
the  wedding  party  alight,  and  enter  after  them.  And  why  does 
Mr.  Carker,  passing  through  the  people  to  the  hall-door,  think 
of  the  old  woman  who  called  to  him  in  the  Grove  that  morn- 
ing ?  Or  why  does  Florence,  as  she  passes,  think,  with  a  trem- 
ble, of  her  childhood,  when  she  was  lost,  and  of  the  visage  of 
good  Mrs.  Brown  1 

Now,  there  are  more  congratulations  on  this  happiest  of 
days,  and  more  company,  though  not  much  ;  and  now  they 
leave  the  drawing-room,  and  range  themselves  at  table  in  the 
dark-brown  dining-room,  which  no  confectioner  can  brighten 
up,  let  him  garnish  the  exhausted  negroes  with  as  many  fiowers 
and  love-knots  as  he  will. 

The  pastry-cook  has  done  his  duty  like  a  man,  though,  and 
a  rich  breakfast  is  set  forth.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Chick  have  joined 
the  party,  among  others.  Mrs.  Chick  admires  that  Edith 
should  be,  by  nature,  such  a  perfect  Dombey  ;  and  is  affable 
and  confidential  to  Mrs.  Skewton,  whose  mind  is  relieved  of  a 
great  load,  and  who  takes  her  share  of  the  champagne.  The 
very  tall  young  man  who  suffered  from  excitement  early,  is  bet- 
ter ;  but  a  vague  sentiment  of  repentance  has  seized  upon  him, 
■and  he  hates  the  other  very  tall  young  man,  and  wrests  dishes 
from  him  by  violence,  and  takes  a  grim  delight  in  disobliging 
the  company.  The  company  are  cool  and  calm,  and  do  not 
outrage  tlse  black  hatchments  of  pictures  looking  down  upon 
them,  by  any  excess  of  mirth.  Cousin  Feenix  and  the  Major 
are  the  gayest  there  ;  but  Mr.  Carker  has  a  smile  for  the  whole 
table.  He  has  an  especial  smile  for  the  Bride,  who  very,  very 
seldom  meets  it. 

Cousin  Feenix  rises,  when  the  company  have  breakfasted, 
and  the  servants  have  left  the  room  ;  and  wonderfully  young 
he  looks,  with  his  white  wristbands  almost  covering  his  hands 


THE   WEDDIA'C.  42^ 

(otherwise  rather  bony),  and  the  bloom  of  the  champagne  in  his 
cheeks, 

"  Upon  my  honor,"  says  cousin  Feenix,  "  although  it's  an 
unusual  sort  of  thing  in  a  private  gentleman's  house,  I  must 
beg  leave  to  call  upon  you  to  drink  what  is  usually  called  a — 
in  fact  a  toast." 

The  Major  very  hoarsely  indicates  his  approval.  Mr, 
Carker,  bending  his  head  forward  over  the  table  in  the  direc- 
tion of  Cousin  Feenix,  smiles  and  nods  a  great  many  times. 

"  A — in  fact  it's  not  a — "  Cousin  Feenix  beginning  again, 
thus,  comes  to  a  dead  stop. 

"  Plear,  hear  !  "  says  the  Major  in  a  tone  of  conviction. 

Mr.  Carker  softly  claps  his  hands,  and  bending  forward 
over  the  table  again,  smiles  and  nods  a  great  many  more  times 
than  before,  as  if  he  were  particularly  struck  by  this  last  ob- 
servation, and  desired  personally  to  express  his  sense  of  the 
good  it  has  done  him. 

"  It  is,"  says  Cousin  Feenix,  "  an  occasion  in  fact,  when 
the  general  usages  of  life  may  be  a  little  departed  from,  without 
impropriety ;  and  although  I  never  was  an  orator  in  my  life, 
and  when  I  was  in  the  House  of  Commons,  and  had  the  honor 
of  seconding  the  address,  was — in  fact,  was  laid  up  for  a  fort- 
night with  the  consciousness  of  failure — " 

The  Major  and  Mr.  Carker  are  so  much  delighted  by  this 
fragment  of  personal  history,  that  Cousin  Feenix  laughs,  and 
addressing  them  individually,  goes  on  to  say  : 

"  And  in  a  point  of  fact,  when  I  was  devilish  ill — still,  you 
know,  I  feel  that  a  duty  devolves  upon  me.  And  when  a  duty 
devolves  upon  an  Englishman,  he  is  bound  to  get  out  of  it,  in 
my  opinion,  in  the  best  way  he  can.  Well  !  our  family  has 
had  the  gratification,  to-day,  of  connecting  itself  in  the  per^ 
son  of  my  lovely  and  accomplished  relative,  whom  I  now  see 
— in  point  of  fact,  present — " 

Here  there  is  general  applause. 

"  Present,"  repeats  Cousin  Feenix,  feeling  that  it  is  a  neat 
point  which  will  bear  repetition, — "  with  one  who — that  is  to 
say,  with  a  man,  at  whom  the  finger  of  scorn  can  never — in 
fact,  with  my  honorable  friend  Dombey,  if  he  will  allow  me  to 
call  him  so." 

Cousin  Feenix  bows  to  Mr.  Dombey;  Mr.  Dombey  solemnly 
returns  the  bow;  everybody  is  more  or  less  gratified  and 
affected  by  this  extraordinary,  and  perhaps  unprecedented, 
appeal  to  the  feelings. 

"  I  have  not,"  says  Cousin  Feenix,  "  enjoyed  those  oppor- 


436  t)OMBE  V  AND  SON^ 

tunities  which  /  could  have  desired,  of  cultivaling  the  ao 
quaintarvce  of  my  friend  Donibey,  and  studying  those  qualities 
which  do  equal  honor  to  his  head,  and  in  point  of  fact,  to  his 
heart ;  for  it  has  been  my  misfortune  to  be  as  we  used  to  say 
in  my  time  in  the  House  of  Commons,  when  it  was  not  the 
custom  to  allude  to  the  Lords,  and  when  the  order  of  parlia- 
mentary proceedings  was  perhaps  better  observed  than  it  is 
now — to  be  in — in  point  of  fact,"  says  Cousin  Feenix,  cherish- 
ing his  joke,  with  great  slyness,  and  finally  bringing  it  out 
with  a  jerk,  "  '  in  another  place  ! '  " 

The  Major  falls  into  convulsions,  and  is  recovered  with 
difficulty. 

"  But  I  know  sufificient  of  my  friend  Dombey,"  resumes 
Cousin  Feenix  in  a  graver  tone,  as  if  he  had  suddenly  become  a 
sadder  and  wiser  man,  "  to  know  that  he  is  in  point  of  fact, 
what  may  be  emphatically  called  a — a  merchant — a  British  mer- 
chant— and  a — and  a  man.  And  although  I  have  been  resident 
abroad  for  some  years  (it  would  give  me  great  pleasure  to  recei\e 
my  friend  Dombey,  and  everybody  here,  at  Baden-Baden,  and  to 
have  an  opportunity  of  making  'em  known  to  the  Grand  Duke), 
still  I  know  enough,  I  flatter  myself,  of  my  lovely  and  accom- 
plished relative,  to  know  that  she  possesses  every  requisite  to 
make  a  man  happy,  and  that  her  marriage  with  my  friend  Dom- 
bey is  one  of  inclination  and  affection  on  both  sides." 

Many  smiles  and  nods  from  Mr.  Carker. 

"Therefore,"  says  Cousin  Feenix,  "I  congratulate  the 
family  of  which  I  am  a  member,  on  the  acquisition  of  my  friend 
Dombey.  I  congratulate  my  friend  Dombey  on  his  union  with 
my  lovely  and  accomplished  relative  who  possesses  every  re- 
quisite to  make  a  man  happy ;  and  I  take  the  liberty  of  calling 
on  you  all,  in  point  of  fact,  to  congratulate  both  my  friend 
Dombey  and  my  lovely  and  accomplished  relative,  on  the 
present  occasion." 

The  speech  of  Cousin  Feenix  is  received  with  great  applause, 
and  Mr.  Dombey  returns  thanks  on  behalf  of  himself  and  Mrs. 
Dombey.  J.  B.  shortly  afterwards  proposes  Mrs.  Skewton. 
The  breakfast  languishes  when  that  is  done,  the  violated  hatch- 
ments are  avenged,  and  Edith  rises  to  assume  her  travelling 
dress. 

All  the  servants  in  the  meantime,  have  been  breakfasting 
below.  Champagne  has  grown  too  common  among  them  to  be 
mentioned,  and  roast  fowls,  raised  pies,  and  lobster-salad,  have 
become  mere  drugs.  The  very  tall  young  man  has  recovered 
his  spirits,  and  again  alludes  to  the  e.\ciseman.     His  comrade's 


THE  WEDDING.  4^1 

eye  begins  to  emulate  his  own,  and  he,  too,  stares  at  objects 
without  taking  cognizance  thereof.  There  is  a  general  redness 
in  the  faces  of  the  ladies  ;  in  the  face  of  Mrs.  Perch  particularly, 
who  is  joyous  and  beaming,  and  lifted  so  far  above  the  cares  of 
life,  that  if  she  were  asked  just  now  to  direct  a  wayfarer  to 
Ball's  Pond,  where  her  own  cares  lodge,  she  would  have  some 
difficulty  in  recalling  the  way.  Mr.  Towlinson  has  proposed 
the  happy  pair :  to  which  the  silver-headed  butler  has  re- 
sponded neatly,  and  with  emotion  ;  for  he  half  begins  to  think 
he  is  an  old  retainer  of  the  family,  and  that  he  is  bound  to  be 
affected  by  these  changes.  The  whole  party,  and  especially 
the  ladies,  are  very  frolicsome.  Mr.  Dombey's  cook,  who  gen- 
erally takes  the  lead  in  society,  has  said,  it  is  impossible  to 
settle  down  after  this,  and  why  not  go,  in  a  party,  to  the  play  ? 
Everybody  (Mrs.  Perch  included)  has  agreed  to  this  :  even  the 
Native,  who  is  tigerish  in  his  drink,  and  who  alarms  the  ladies 
(Mrs.  Perch  particularly)  by  the  rolling  of  his  eyes.  One  of  the 
very  tall  young  men  has  even  proposed  a  ball  after  the  play, 
and  it  presents  itself  to  no  one  (Mrs.  Perch  included)  in  the 
light  of  an  impossibility.  Words  have  arisen  between  the 
housemaid  and  Mr.  Towlinson  ;  she,  on  the  authority  of  an  old 
saw,  asserting  marriages  to  be  made  in  Heaven  :  he,  affecting 
to  trace  the  manufacture  elsewhere ;  he,  supposing  that  she 
says  so,  because  she  thinks  of  being  married  her  own  self  ;  she 
saying.  Lord  forbid,  at  any  rate,  that  she  should  ever  marry 
hhn.  To  calm  these  flying  taunts,  the  silver-headed  butler 
rises  to  propose  the  health  of  Mr.  Towlinson,  whom  to  know 
is  to  esteem,  and  to  esteem  is  to  wish  well  settled  in  life  with 
the  object  of  his  choice,  wherever  (here  the  silver-headed  butler 
eyes  the  housemaid)  she  may  be.  Mr.  Towlinson  returns 
thanks  in  a  speech  replete  with  feeling,  of  which  the  perora- 
tion turns  on  foreigners,  regarding  whom  he  says  they  may  find 
favor,  sometimes  with  weak  and  inconstant  intellects  that  can 
be  led  away  by  hair,  but  all  he  hopes,  is,  he  may  never  hear  of 
no  foreigner  never  boning  nothing  out  of  no  travelling  chariot. 
The  eyes  of  Mr.  Towlinson  is  so  severe  and  so  expressive  here, 
that  the  housemaid  is  turning  hysterical,  when  she  and  all  the 
rest,  roused  by  the  intelligence  that  the  Pride  is  going  away, 
hurry  upstairs  to  witness  her  departure. 

The  chariot  is  at  the  door ;  the  Bride  is  descending  to  the 
hall,  where  Mr.  Dombey  waits  for  her.  Florence  is  ready  on 
the  staircase  to  depart  too ;  and  Miss  Nipper  who  has  held  a 
middle  state  between  the  parlor  and  the  kitchen,  is  prepared  to 
afccompany  her.  As  Edith  appears,  Florence  hastens  towards 
her,  to  bid  her  farewell. 


432 


DOMBEY  AND  SOhT. 


Is  Edith  cold,  tliat  she  should  tremble  !  Is  there  anything 
unnatural  or  unwholesome  in  the  touch  of  Florence,  that  the 
beautiful  form  recedes  and  contracts,  as  if  it  could  not  bear  it ! 
Is  there  so  much  hurry  in  this  going  away,  that  Edith,  with  a 
wave  of  her  hand,  sweeps  on,  and  is  gone  ! 

Mrs.  Skewton,  overpowered  by  her  feelings  as  a  mother, 
sinks  on  her  sofa  in  the  Cleopatra  attitude,  when  the  clatter  of 
the  chariot  wheels  is  lost,  and  sheds  several  tears.  The  Major, 
coming  with  the  rest  of  the  company  from  table,  endeavors  to 
comfort  her  ;  but  she  will  not  be  comforted  on  any  terms,  and 
so  the  Major  takes  his  leave.  Cousin  Feenix  takes  his  leave, 
and  Mr.  Carker  takes  his  leave.  The  guests  all  go  away. 
Cleopatra,  left  alone,  feels  a  little  giddy  from  her  strong  emo- 
tion, and  falls  asleep. 

Giddiness  prevails  below  stairs  too.  The  very  tall  young 
man  whose  excitement  came  on  so  soon,  appears  to  have  his 
head  glued  to  the  table  in  the  pantry,  and  cannot  be  detached 
from  it.  A  violent  revulsion  has  taken  place  in  the  spirits  of 
Mrs.  Perch,  who  is  low  on  account  of  Mr.  Perch,  and  tells  cook 
that  she  fears  he  is  not  so  much  attached  to  his  home,  as  he 
used  to  be,  when  they  were  only  nine  in  family.  Mr.  Towlinson 
has  a  singing  in  his  ears  and  a  large  wheel  going  round  and 
round  inside  his  head.  The  housemaid  wishes  it  wasn't  wicked 
to  wish  that  one  was  dead. 

There  is  a  general  delusion  likewise,  in  these  lower  regions, 
on  the  subject  of  time  •  everybody  concei\ing  that  it  ought  to 
be,  at  the  earliest,  ten  o'clock  at  night,  whereas  it  is  not  }et 
three  in  the  afternoon.  A  sliadowy  idea  of  wickedness  com- 
mitted, haunts  every  individual  in  the  party;  and  each  one 
secretly  thinks  the  other  a  companion  in  guilt,  whom  it  would 
be  agreeable  to  avoid.  No  man  or  woman  has  the  hardihood 
to  hint  at  the  projected  visit  to  the  play.  Anyone  reviving  the 
notion  of  the  ball,  would  be  scouted  as  a  malignant  idiot. 

Mrs.  Skewton  sleeps  up  stairs,  two  hours  afterwards,  and 
naps  are  not  yet  over  in  the  kitchen.  The  hatchments  in  the 
dining-room  look  down  on  crumbs,  dirty  plates,  spillings  of 
wine,  half-thawed  ice,  stale  discolored  heel-taps,  scraps  of 
lobster,  drumsticks  of  fowls,  and  pensive  jellies,  gradually  re- 
solving themselves  into  a  lukewarm  gummy  soup.  The  mar- 
riage is,  by  this  time,  almost  as  denuded  of  its  show  and  garnish 
as  the  breakfast.  Mr.  Dombey's  servants  moralize  so  much 
about  it,  and  are  so  repentant  over  their  early  tea,  at  home,  that 
by  eight  o'clock  or  so,  they  settle  down  into  confirmed  serious- 
ness i  and  Mr,  Perch,  arriving  at  that  lime  from  the  City,  fresfe 


THE  WEDDING.  43j 

and  jocular,  with  a  white  waistcoat  and  a  comic  song,  ready  to 
spend  the  evening,  and  prepared  for  any  amount  of  dissipation, 
is  amazed  to  find  himself  coldly  received,  and  Mrs.  Perch  but 
poorly,  and  to  have  the  pleasing  duty  of  escorting  that  lady 
home  by  the  next  omnibus. 

Night  closes  in.  Florence  having  rambled  through  the  hand- 
some house,  from  room  to  room,  seeks  her  own  chamber,  where 
the  care  of  Edith  has  surrounded  her  with  luxuries  and  com- 
forts ;  and  divesting  herself  of  her  handsome  dress,  puts  on 
her  old  simple  mourning  for  dear  Paul,  and  sits  down  to  read, 
with  Diogenes  winking  and  blinking  on  the  ground  beside  her. 
But  Florence  cannot  read  to-night.  The  house  seems  strange 
and  new,  and  there  are  loud  echoes  in  it.  There  is  a  shadow 
on  her  heart ;  she  knows  not  why  or  what ;  but  it  is  heavy. 
Florence  shuts  her  book,  and  gruff  Diogenes,  who  takes  that 
for  a  signal,  puts  his  paws  upon  her  lap,  and  rubs  his  ears 
against  her  caressing  hands.  But  Florence  cannot  see  him 
plainly,  in  a  little  time,  for  there  is  a  mist  between  her  eyes  and 
him,  and  her  dead  brother  and  dead  mother  shine  in  it  like 
angels.  Walter,  too,  poor  wandering  shipwrecked  boy,  oh, 
where  is  he ! 

The  Major  don't  know  ;  that's  for  certain  ;  and  don't  care. 
The  Major,  having  choked  and  slumbered,  all  the  afternoon, 
has  taken  a  late  dinner  at  his  club,  and  now  sits  over  his  pint 
of  wine,  driving  a  modest  young  man,  with  a  fresh-colored  face, 
at  the  next  table  (who  would  give  a  handsome  sum  to  be  able 
to  rise  and  go  away,  but  cannot  do  it)  to  the  verge  of  madness, 
by  anecdotes  of  Bagstock,  Sir,  at  Dombey's  wedding,  and  Old 
Joe's  devilish  gentlemanly  friend.  Lord  Feenix.  While  Cousin 
Feenix,  who  ought  to  be  at  Long's,  and  in  bed,  finds  himself, 
instead,  at  a  gaming-table,  where  his  wilful  legs  have  taken  him, 
perhaps,  in  his  own  despite. 

Night,  like  a  giant,  fills  the  church,  from  pavement  to  roof, 
and  holds  dominion  through  the  silent  hours.  Pale  dawn  again 
comes  peeping  through  the  windows  ;  and,  giving  place  to  day, 
sees  night  withdraw  into  the  vaults,  and  follows  it,  and  drives 
it  out,  and  hides  among  the  dead.  The  timid  mice  again  cower 
close  together,  when  the  great  door  clashes,  and  Mn  Sownds 
and  Mrs.  Miff,  treading  the  circle  of  their  daily  lives,  unbroken 
as  a  marriage  ring,  come  in.  Again,  the  cocked  hat  and  the 
mortified  bonnet  stand  in  the  background  at  the  marriage  hour  ; 
and  again  this  man  takcth  this  woman,  and  this  woman  taketh 
this  man,  on  the  solemn  terms  : 

"  To  have  and  to  hold,  from  this  day  forward,  for  better  for 


434 


DQMDEY  AXD  SOX. 


worse,  for  richer  for  poorer,  in  sickness  and  in  health,  to  love 
and  to  cherish,  until  death  do  them  part." 

The  vi;ry  words  that  Mr.  Carker  rides  into  town  repeating, 
with  his  mouth  stretched  to  the  utmost,  as  he  picks  his  dainty 
way. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

THE  WOODEN  MIDSHIPMAN    GOES  TO  PIECES. 

Honest  Captain  Cuttle,  as  the  weeks  flew  over  him  in  his 
fortified  retreat,  by  no  means  abated  any  of  his  prudent  pro- 
visions against  surprise,  because  of  the  non-appearance  of  the 
enemy.  The  Captain  argued  that  his  present  security  was  too 
profound  and  wonderful  to  endure  much  longer;  he  knew  that 
when  the  wind  stood  in  a  fair  quarter,  the  weathercock  was 
seldom  nailed  there  ;  and  he  was  too  v.ell  acquainted  with  the 
determined  and  dauntless  character  of  Mrs.  MacStinger,  to 
doubt  that  that  heroic  woman  had  devoted  herself  to  the  task 
of  his  discovery  and  capture.  Trembling  beneath  the  weight 
of  these  reasons.  Captain  Cuttle  lived  a  very  close  and  retired 
life  ;  seldom  stirring  abroad  until  after  dark  ;  venturing  even 
only  into  the  obscurest  streets ;  never  going  forth  at  all  on, 
Sundays  ;  and  both  within  and  without  the  walls  of  his  retreat 
avoiding  bonnets,  as  if  they  were  worn  by  raging  lions. 

The  Captain  never  dreamed  that  in  the  event  of  his  being 
pounced  upon  by  Mrs.  MacStinger,  in  his  walks,  it  would  be 
possible  to  offer  resistance.  He  felt  that  it  could  not  be  done. 
He  saw  himself,  in  his  mind's  eye,  put  meekly  in  a  hackney- 
coach,  and  carried  off  to  his  old  lodgings.  He  foresaw  that, 
once  immured  there,  he  was  a  lost  man  :  his  hat  gone;  Mrs. 
MacStinger  watchful  of  him  day  and  night ;  reproaches  heaped 
upon  his  head,  before  the  infant  family;  himself  the  guilty  ob- 
ject of  suspicion  and  distrust;  an  ogre  in  the  children's  eyes, 
and  in  their  mother  s  a  detected  traitor. 

A  violent  perspiration,  and  a  lowness  of  spirits  always  came 
over  the  Captain  as  this  gloomy  picture  presented  itself  to  his 
imagination.  It  generally  did  so  previous  to  his  stealing  out 
of  doors  at  night  for  air  and  exercise.  Sensible  of  the  risk  he 
ran,  tlie  ('aptaintook  leave  of  Rob,  at  those  times,  with  the  sol- 
emnity which  became  a  ninn  who  might  never  return  :  exhort- 


THE   WOODEN  MIDSHIPMAN  GOES  TO  PIECES.     435 

ing  him,  in  the  event  of  his  (the  Captain's)  being  lost  sight  of, 
for  a  time,  to  tread  in  the  paths  of  virtue,  and  keep  the  brazen 
instruments  well  polished. 

But  not  to  throw  away  a  chance  ;  and  to  secure  to  himself 
a  means,  in  case  of  the  worst,  of  holding  communication  with 
the  external  world  ;  Captain  Cuttle  soon  conceived  the  happy 
idea  of  teaching  Rob  the  Grinder  some  secret  signal,  by  which 
that  adherent  might  make  his  presence  and  fidelity  known  to 
his  commander,  in  the  hour  of  adversity.  After  much  cogita' 
tion,  the  Captain  decided  in  favor  of  instructing  him  to  whistle 
the  marine  melody,  "  Oh  cheerily,  cheerily  !  "  and  Rob  thp 
Grinder  attaining  a  point  as  near  perfection  in  that  accomplish- 
ment as  a  landsman  could  hope  to  reach,  the  Captain  impressed 
these  mysterious  instructions  on  his  mind : 

"  Now,  my  lad,  stand  by  !     If  ever  I'm  took — " 

*'  Took,  Captain  !  "  interposed  Rob,  with  his  round  eyes 
wide  open. 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Captain  Cuttle  darkly,  "  if  ever  I  goes  away, 
meaning  to  come  back  to  supper,  and  don't  come  within  hail 
again  twenty-four  hours  arter  my  loss,  go  you  to  Brig  Place 
and  whistle  that  'ere  tune  near  my  old  moorings — not  as  if  you 
was  a  meaning  of  it,  you  understand,  but  as  if  you'd  drifted 
there,  promiscuous.  If  I  answer  in  that  tune,  you  sheer  off, 
my  lad,  and  come  back  four-and-twenty  hours  arterwards  ;  if  I 
answer  in  another  tune,  do  you  stand  off  and  on,  and  wait  till 
I  throw  out  further  signals.  Do  you  understand  them  orders, 
now  ?  " 

"  What  am  I  to  stand  off  and  on  of,  Captain  ? "  inquired 
Rob.     "  The  horse-road  ?  " 

"  Here's  a  smart  lad  for  you  !  "  cried  the  Captain,  eyeing 
him  sternly,  "  as  don't  know  his  own  native  alphabet  !  Go 
away  a  bit  and  come  back  again  alternate — d'ye  understand 
that  ?  " 

"Yes,  Captain,"  said  Rob. 

*'  Very  good  my  lad,  then,"  said  the  Captain,  relenting. 
"  Do  it !  " 

That  he  might  do  it  the  better,  Captain  Cuttle  sometimes 
condescended,  of  an  evening  after  the  shop  was  shut,  to  re- 
hearse this  scene  :  retiring  into  the  parlor  for  the  purpose,  as 
into  the  lodgings  of  a  supposititious  MacStinger,  and  carefully 
observing  the  behavior  of  his  ally,  from  the  hole  of  espial  he 
had  cut  in  the  wall.  Rob  the  Grinder  discharged  himself  of 
his  duty  with  so  much  exactness  and  judgment,  when  thus  put 
to  the  proof,  that  the  Captain  presented  him,  at  divers  times, 


^;^6  DOMREY  AXD  SOA": 

with  seven  sixpences,  in  token  of  satisfaction ;  and  graduallj 
felt  stealing  over  his  spirit  the  resignation  of  a  man  who  had 
made  provision  for  tlie  worst,  and  taken  e\ery  reasonable  pre- 
caution against  an  unrelenting  fate. 

Nevertheless,  the  Captain  did  not  tempt  ill-fortune,  by 
being  a  whit  more  venturesome  than  before.  Though  he  con- 
sidered  it  a  point  of  good  breeding  in  himself,  as  a  general 
friend  of  th.e  family,  to  attend  Mr.  Dombey's  wedding  (of  which 
he  had  heard  from  Mr.  Perch),  and  to  show  that  gentleman  a 
pleasant  and  approving  countenance  from  the  gallery,  he  had 
repaired  to  the  church  in  a  hackney  cabriolet  with  both  win- 
dows up  ;  and  might  have  scrupled  even  to  make  that  venture, 
in  his  dread  of  Mrs.  MacStinger,  but  that  the  lady's  attendance 
on  the  ministry  of  the  Reverend  Melchisedech  rendered  it  pe- 
culiarly unlikely  that  she  would  be  found  in  communion  with 
the  Establishment. 

The  Captain  got  safe  home  again,  and  fell  into  the  ordinary 
routine  of  his  new  life,  without  encountering  any  more  direct 
alarm  from  the  enemy,  than  was  suggested  to  him  by  the  daily 
bonnets  in  the  street.  But  other  subjects  began  to  lay  heavy 
on  the  Captain's  mind.  Walter's  ship  was  still  unheard  of. 
No  news  came  of  old  Sol  Gills.  Florence  did  not  even  know 
of  the  old  man's  disappearance,  and  Captain  Cuttle  had  not  the 
heart  to  tell  her.  Indeed  the  Captain,  as  his  own  hopes  of  the 
generous,  handsome,  gallant-hearted  youth,  whom  he  had  loved, 
according  to  his  rough  manner,  from  a  child,  began  to  fade, 
and  faded  more  and  more  from  day  to  day,  shrunk  with  instinc- 
tive pain  from  the  thought  of  exchanging  a  word  with  Florence. 
If  he  had  had  good  news  to  carry  to  her,  the  honest  Captain 
would  have  braved  the  newly  decorated  house  and  splendid 
furniture — though  these,  connected  with  the  lady  he  had  seen 
at  church,  were  awful  to  him — and  made  his  way  into  her  pres- 
ence. With  a  dark  horizon  gathering  around  their  common 
hopes,  however,  that  darkened  every  hour,  the  Captain  almost 
felt  as  if  he  were  a  new  misfortune  and  affliction  to  her  ;  and 
was  scarcely  less  afraid  of  a  visit  from  Florence,  than  from 
Mrs.  MacStinger  herself. 

It  was  a  chill  dark  autumn  evening,  and  Captain  Cuttle 
had  ordered  a  fire  to  be  kindled  in  the  little  back  parlor,  now 
more  than  ever  like  the  cabin  of  a  ship.  The  rain  fell  fast, 
and  the  wind  blew  hard  ;  and  straying  out  on  the  house-top  by 
that  stormy  bedroom  of  his  old  friend,  to  take  nn  observation 
of  the  weather,  the  Captain's  heart  died  within  him,  when  he 
saw  how  wild  and  desolate  it  was.     Not  that  he  associated  the 


'IHk  WOODEN  MIDSHIPMAN  GOES  TO  PIECES.     43^ 

jveather  of  that  time  with  poor  Walter's  destiny,  or  doubted 
that  if  Providence  had  doomed  him  to  be  lost  and'  shipwrecked. 
it  was  ov^er,  long  ago ;  but  that  beneath  an  outward  influence, 
quite  distinct  from  the  subject-matter  of  his  thoughts,  the  Cap- 
tain's spirits  sank,  and  his  hopes  turned  pale,  as  those  of  wiser 
men  had  often  done  before  him,  and  will  often  do  again. 

Captain  Cuttle,  addressmg  his  face  to  the  sharp  wind  and 
slanting  rain,  looked  up  at  the  heavy  scud  that  was  Hying  fast  over 
the  wilderness  of  house-tops,  and  looked  for  something  cheery 
there  in  vain.  The  prospect  near  at  hand  was  no  better.  In 
sundry  tea-chests  and  other  rough  boxes  at  his  feet,  the  pigeons 
of  Rob  and  Grinder  were  cooing  like  so  many  dismal  breezes 
getting  up.  A  crazy  weathercock  of  a  midshipman,  with  a 
telescope  at  his  eye,  once  visible  from  the  street,  but  long 
bricked  out,  creaked  and  complained  upon  his  rusty  pivot  as 
the  shrill  blast  spun  him  round  and  round,  and  sported  with 
him  cruelly.  Upon  the  Captain's  coarse  blue  vest  the  cold 
rain-drops  started  like  steel  beads  ;  and  he  could  hardly  main- 
tain himself  aslant  against  the  stiff  Nor'  Wester  that  came 
pressing  against  him,  importunate  to  topple  him  over  the  para- 
pet, and  throw  him  on  the  pavement  below.  If  there  were  any 
Hope  alive  that  evening,  the  Captain  thought,  as  he  held  his 
hat  on,  it  certainly  kept  house,  and  wasn't  out  of  doors  ;  so  the 
Captain,  shaking  his  head  in  a  despondent  manner,  went  in  to 
look  for  it. 

Captain  Cuttle  descended  slowly  to  the  little  back  parlor, 
and,  seated  in  his  accustomed  chair,  looked  for  it  in  the  fire  : 
but  it  was  not  there,  though  the  fire  was  bright.  He  took  out 
his  tobacco-box  and  pipe,  and  composing  himself  to  smoke, 
looked  for  it  in  the  red  glow  from  the  bowl,  and  in  the  wreaths 
01  vapor  that  curled  upward  from  his  lips  ;  but  there  was  not 
so  much  as  an  atom  of  the  rust  of  Hope's  anchor  in  either. 
He  tried  a  glass  of  grog  ;  but  melancholy  truth  was  at  the  bot- 
tom of  that  well,  and  he  couldn't  finish  it.  He  made  a  turn  or 
two  in  the  shop,  and  looked  for  Hope  among  the  instruments  ; 
but  they  obstinately  worked  out  reckonings  for  the  missing  ship, 
m  spite  of  any  opposition  he  could  offer,  that  ended  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  lone  sea. 

The  wind  still  rushing,  and  the  rain  still  pattering,  against 
the  closed  shutters,  the  Captain  brought  to  before  the  wooden 
Midshipman  upon  the  counter,  and  thought,  as  he  dried  the 
little  officer's  uniform  with  his  sleeve,  how  many  years  the  Mid- 
shipman had  seen,  during  which  few  changes — hardly  any- 
had  transpired  among  the  ship's  company ;  how  the  changes 


438  LOMDEY  A.V^D  sou. 

had  come  all  together,  one  day,  as  it  might  be  ;  and  of  what  a 
sweeping  kind  they  were.  Here  was  the  little  society  of  the 
back  parlor  broken  up,  and  scattered  far  and  wide.  Here  was 
no  audience  for  Lovely  Peg,  even  if  there  had  been  anybody 
to  sing  it,  which  there  was  not,  for  the  Captain  was  as  morally 
certain  that  nobody  but  he  could  execute  that  ballad,  as  he  was 
that  he  had  not  the  spirit,  under  existing  circumstances,  to 
attempt  it.  There  was  no  bright  f  ice  of  "  Wal'r  "  in  the  house ; 
— here  the  Captain  transferred  hL  sleeve  for  a  moment  from 
the  Midshipman's  uniform  to  his  own  cheek : — the  familiar  wig 
and  buttons  of  Sol  Gills  were  a  vision  of  the  past ;  Richard 
Whittington  was  knocked  on  the  head  ;  and  every  plan  and 
project,  in  connection  with  the  Midshipman,  lay  drifting,  with- 
out mast  or  rudder,  on  the  waste  of  waters. 

As  the  Captain,  with  a  dejected  face,  stood  revolving  these 
thoughts,  and  polishing  the  Midshipman,  partly  in  the  tender- 
ness of  old  acquaintance,  and  partly  in  the  absence  of  his  mind, 
a  knocking  at  the  shop-door  communicated  a  frightful  start  to 
the  .^rame  of  Rob  the  Grinder,  seated  on  the  counter,  whose 
large  eyes  had  been  intently  fixed  on  the  Captain's  face  and 
who  had  been  debating  within  himself,  for  the  five  hun- 
dredth time,  vvhether  the  Captain  could  have  done  a  murder, 
that  he  had  such  an  evil  conscience,  and  was  always  running 
away. 

"  What's  that !  "  said  Captain  Cuttle,  softly. 

"  Somebody's  knuckles,  Captain,"  answered  Rob  the  Grin- 
der. 

The  Captain  Avith  an  abashed  and  guilty  air,  immediately 
sneaked  on  tiptoe  to  the  little  parlor  and  locked  himself  in. 
Rob,  opening  the  door,  would  have  parleyed  with  the  visitor 
on  the  threshold  if  the  visitor  had  come  in  female  guise  ;  but 
the  figure  being  of  the  male  sex,  and  Rob's  orders  only  appl}'- 
ing  to  women,  Rob  held  the  door  open  and  allowed  it  to  enter: 
which  it  did  very  quickly,  glad  to  get  out  of  the  driving  rain. 

"  A  job  for  Burgess  and  Co.  at  any  rate,"  said  the  visitor, 
looking  over  his  shoulder  compassionately  at  his  own  legs, 
which  were  wet  and  covered  with  splashes.  "  Oh,  how-de-do, 
Mr.  Gills  ?  " 

The  salutation  was  addressed  to  the  Captain,  now  emerging 
from  the  back  parlor  with  a  most  transparent  and  utterly  futile 
affectation  of  coming  out  by  accident. 

"  Thankee,"  the  gentleman  went  on  to  say  in  the  same 
breath  ;  "  I'm  very  well  indeed,  myself,  I'm  much  obliged  to 
you.     My  name  is  Toots  j — Mister  Toots." 


THE   WOODEN  MIDSHIPMAX  GOES  TO  PIECES.      43^ 

The  Captain  remembered  to  have  seen  this  young  gentle* 
man  at  the  wedding,  and  made  him  a  bow.  Mr.  Toots  replied 
with  a  chuckle  and  being  embarrassed,  as  he  generally  was, 
breathed  hard,  shook  hands  witli  the  Captain  for  a  long  time^ 
and  then  falling  on  Rob  the  Grinder,  in  the  absence  of  any 
other  resource,  shook  hands  with  him  in  a  most  affectionate 
and  cordial  manner. 

"  I  say ;  I  should  like  to  speak  a  word  to  you,  Mr.  Gills,  if 
you  please,"  said  Toots  at  length,  with  surpassing  presence  of 
mind.     "  I  say  !  Miss  D.  O.  M.  you  know  !  " 

The  Captain  with  responsive  gravity  and  myrter}',  imme- 
diately waved  his  hook  towards  the  little  parlor,  whither  Mr. 
Toots  followed  him, 

"  Oh  !  I  beg  your  pardon  though,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  looking 
up  in  the  Captain's  face  as  he  sat  down  in  a  chair  by  the  fire, 
which  the  Captain  placed  for  him  ;  "  you  don't  happen  to  know 
the  Chicken  at  all ;  do  you  Mr.  Gills  .?  " 
"  The  Chicken  ?  "  said  the  Captain. 
"  The  Game  Chicken,"  said  Mr.  Toots. 
The  Captain  shaking  his  head,  Mr.  Toots  explained  that  the 
man  alluded  to  was  the  celebrated  public  character  who  had 
covered  himself  and  his  countr}'  with  glory  in   his  contest  with 
the  Nobby  Shropshire  One  ;  but  this  piece  of  information  did 
not  appear  to  enlighten  the  Captain  very  much. 

"  Because  he's  outside  :  that's  all,"  said  Mr.  Toots.  "  But 
it's  of  no  consequence ;  he  won't  get  very  wet,  perhaps." 

"  I  can  pass  the  word  for  him  in  a  moment,"  said  the  Cap- 
tain. 

"  Well,  if  you  would  have  the  goodness  to  let  him  sit  in  the 
shop  with  your  young  man,"  chuckled  Mr.  Toots,  "  I  should 
be  glad  ;  because,  you  know,  he's  easily  offended,  and  the 
damp's  rather  bad  for  his  stamina,  /'ll  call  him  in,  Mr.  Gills." 
With  that,  Mr.  Toots  repairing  to  the  shop-door,  sent  a 
peculiar  whistle  into  the  night,  which  produced  a  stoical  gen- 
tleman in  a  shaggy  white  great-coat  and  a  flat-brimmed  hat, 
with  very  short  hair,  a  broken  nose,  and  a  considerable  tract  of 
bare  and  sterile  country  behind  each  ear. 
"Sit  down.  Chicken,"  said  Mr.  Toots. 

The  compliant  Chicken  spat  out  some  small  pieces  of  straw 
on  which  he  was  regaling  himself,  and  took  in  a  fresh  supply 
from  a  reserve  he  carried  in  his  hand. 

"  There  an't  no  drain  of  nothing  short  handy,  is  there  ? " 
said  the  Chicken  generally.  "  This  here  sluicing  night  is  hard 
lines  to  s  man  as  lives  on  hi**  conditipn," 


440  DOMBEY  AND  SOX. 

Captain  Cuttle  proffered  a  glass  of  rum,  which  the  Chicken 
throwing  back  his  head,  emptied  into  himself,  as  into  a  cask, 
after  proposing  the  brief  sentiment,  "  Towards  us  !  "  Mr, 
Toots  and  the  Captain  returning  then  to  the  parlor,  and  taking 
their  seats  before  the  fire,  Mr.  Toots  began  : 

"  Mr.  Gills—" 

"  Awast !  "  said  the  Captain.     "  My  name's  Cuttle," 

Mr.  Toots  looked  greatly  disconcerted,  while  the  Captain 
proceeded  gravely. 

"  Cap'en  Cuttle  is  my  name,  and  England  is  my  nation, 
this  here  is  my  dwelling-place,  and  blessed  be  creation — Job," 
said  the  Captain,  as  an  index  to  his  authority, 

"  Oh  !  I  couldn't  see  Mr,  Gills,  could  1 1 "  said  Mr.  Toots  ; 
"  because — " 

"  If  you  could  see  Sol  Gills,  young  gen'l'm'n,"  said  the 
Captain,  impressively,  and  laying  his  heavy  hand  on  Mr.  Toots's 
knee,  "  old  Sol,  mind  you — with  your  own  eyes — as  you  sit 
there — you'd  be  welcomer  to  me,  than  a  wind  astarn,  to  a  ship 
becalmed.  But  you  can't  see  Sol  Gills.  And  why  can't  you 
see  Sol  Gills  t  "  said  the  Captain,  apprised  by  the  face  of  Mr. 
Toots  that  he  was  making  a  profound  impression  on  that  gen- 
tleman's mind.     "  Because  he's  inwisible." 

Mr.  Toots  in  his  agitation  was  going  to  reply  that  it  was  of 
no  consequence  at  all.  But  he  corrected  himself,  and  said, 
"  Lor  bless  me  !  " 

"  That  there  man,"  said  the  Captain,  "  has  left  me  in 
charge  here  by  a  piece  of  writing,  but  though  he  was  a'most  as 
good  as  my  sworn  brother,  I  know  no  more  where  he's  gone, 
or  why  he's  gone  ;  if  so  be  to  seek  his  nevy,  or  if  so  be  along 
of  being  not  quite  settled  in  his  mind  ;  than  you  do.  One 
morning  at  daybreak,  he  went  over  the  side,"  said  the  Captain, 
*'  without  a  splash,  without  a  ripple.  I  have  looked  for  that 
man  high  and  low,  and  never  set  eyes,  nor  ears,  nor  nothing 
else,  upon  him,  from  that  hour." 

"  ]5ut,  good  Gracious,  Miss  Dombey  don't  know — "  ATn 
Toots  began, 

"  \\'hy,  I  ask  you,  as  a  feeling  heart,"  said  the  Captain, 
dropping  his  voice,  "  why  should  she  know  1  why  should  she 
be  made  to  know,  until  such  time  as  there  warn't  any  help  for 
it?  She  took  to  old  Sol  Clills,  did  that  sweet  creetur,  with  a 
kindness,  with  a  affability,  with  a — what's  the  good  of  saying 
so  ?  you  know  her." 

"  I  should  hope  so,"  chuckled  Mr.  Toots,  \\\\\\  a  conscious 
])Iusb  that  suffused  his  whole  countenance, 


THE  WOODEX  MIDSHIPMAN  GOES  TO  PIECES.     44! 

"  And  you  come  here  from  her  ?  "  said  the  Captain. 

"  I  should  think  so,"  chuckled  Mr.  Toots. 

"  Then  all  I  need  observe,  is,"  said  the  Captain,  "  that  you 
know  a  angel,  and  are  chartered  by  a  angel." 

Mr.  Toots  instantly  seized  the  Captain's  hand,  and  re- 
quested the  favor  of  his  friendship. 

"  Upon  my  word  and  honor,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  earnestly, 
"  I  should  be  very  much  obliged  to  you  if  you'd  improve  my 
acquaintance.  I  should  like  to  know  you.  Captain,  very  much. 
I  really  am  in  want  of  a  friend,  I  am.  Little  Dombey  was  my 
friend  at  old  Blimber's,  and  would  have  been  now,  if  he'd  have 
lived.  The  Chicken,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  in  a  forlorn  whisper, 
"  is  very  well — admirable  in  his  way — the  sharpest  man  perhaps 
in  the  world  ;  there's  not  a  move  he  isn't  up  to,  everybody  says 
so — but  I  don't  know — he's  not  everything.  So  she  is  an 
angel,  Captain.  If  there  is  an  angel  anywhere,  it's  Miss  Dom- 
bey. That's  what  I've  always  said.  Really  though,  you 
know,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  I  should  be  very  much  obliged  to  you 
if  you'd  cultivate  my  acquaintance." 

Captain  Cuttle  received  this  proposal  in  a  polite  manner, 
but  still  without  committing  himself  to  its  acceptance  ;  merely 
observing,  "  Ay,  ay,  my  lad.  We  shall  see,  we  shall  see  ;  "  and 
reminding  Mr,  Toots  of  his  immediate  mission,  by  inquiring  to 
what  he  was  indebted  for  the  honor  of  that  visit. 

"  Why  the  fact  is,"  replied  Mr.  Toots,  "  that  it's  the  young 
woman  I  come  from.     Not  Miss  Dombey — Susan  you  know." 

The  Captain  nodded  his  head  once,  with  a  grave  expression 
of  face,  indicative  of  his  regarding  that  young  woman  with 
serious  respect. 

"  And  I'll  tell  you  how  it  happens,"  said  Mr.  Toots.  "  You 
know,  I  go  and  call  sometimes  on  Miss  Dombey.  I  don't  go 
there  on  purpose,  you  know,  but  I  happen  to  be  in  the  neigh- 
borhood very  often  ;  and  when  I  find  myself  there,  why — why 
I  call." 

"  Nat'rally,"  observed  the  Captain. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Toots.  "  I  called  this  afternoon.  Upon 
my  word  and  honor,  I  don't  think  it's  possible  to  form  an  idea 
of  the  angel  Miss  Dombey  was  this  afternoon." 

The  Captain  answered  with  a  jerk  of  his  head,  implying 
that  it  might  not  be  easy  to  some  people,  but  was  quite  so  to 
him. 

"  As  I  was  coming  out,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  the  young  woman, 
in  the  most  unexpected  manner,  took  me  into  the  pantry." 

The  Captain  seemed,  for  the  moment,  to  object  to  this  pro« 


442  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

ceeding  :  and  leaning  back  in  his  chair,  looked  at  Mr.  Toots 
with  a  distrustful,  if  not  threatening  visage. 

"  Where  she  brought  out,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  this  newspaper. 
She  told  me  that  she  had  kept  it  from  Miss  Dombey  all  day, 
on  account  of  something  that  was  in  it,  about  somebody  that 
she  and  Dombey  used  to  know  ;  and  then  she  read  the  passage 
to  me.  Very  well.  Then  she  said — wait  a  minute  ;  what  was 
it,  she  said  though  !  " 

Mr.  Toots,  endeavoring  to  concentrate  his  mental  powers 
on  this  question,  unintentionally  fixed  the  Captain's  eye,  and 
was  so  much  discomposed  by  its  stern  expression,  that  his  dif- 
ficulty in  resuming  the  thread  of  this  subject  was  enhanced  to  a 
painful  extent. 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Mr.  Toots  after  long  consideration.  "  Oh, 
ah  !  Yes  ?  She  said  that  she  hoped  there  was  a  bare  possi- 
bility that  it  mightn't  be  true  ;  and  that  as  she  couldn't  very 
well  come  out  herself,  without  surprising  Miss  Dombey,  would 
I  go  down  to  Mr.  Solomon  Gills  the  Instrument-maker's  in  this 
street,  who  was  the  party's  uncle,  and  ask  whether  he  believed 
it  was  true,  or  had  heard  anything  else  in  the  city.  She  said, 
if  he  couldn't  speak  to  me,  no  doubt  Captain  Cuttle  could. 
By  the  bye  !  "  said  Mr.  Toots,  as  the  discovery  flashed  upon 
him,  "you,  you  know  !  " 

The  Captain  glanced  at  the  newspaper  in  Mr.  Toots'shand, 
and  breathed  short  and  hurriedly. 

"  Well,"  pursued  Mr.  Toots,  "  the  reason  why  I'm  rather 
late  is  because  I  went  up  as  far  as  Finchley  first,  to  get  some 
uncommonly  fine  cliickweed  that  grows  there,  for  Miss  Dom- 
bey's  bird.  But  I  came  on  here,  directly  afterwards.  You've 
seen  the  paper,  I  suppose  t  " 

The  Captain,  who  had  become  cautious  of  reading  the 
news,  lest  he  should  find  himself  advertised  at  full  length  by 
Mrs.  MacStinger,  shook  his  head. 

"  Shall  1  read  the  passage  to  you  ? "  inquired  Mr.  Toots. 

The  Captain  making  a  sign  in  the  affimative,  Mr.  Toots 
read  as  follows,  from  the  Shipping  Intelligence  : 

"  '  Southampton.  The  barque  lJ)efiance,  Henry  Jam£.$, 
Commander,  arrived  in  this  port  to-day,  with  a  cargo  of  sugar, 
coffee,  and  rum,  reports  that  being  becalmed  on  the  sixth  day 
of  her  passage  home  from  Jamaica,  in  ' — in  such  and  such  a 
latitude,  you  know,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  after  making  a  feeble 
dash  at  tiie  figures,  and  tumbling  over  them. 

"  Ay  !  "  cried  the  Captain,  striking  his  clenched  hand  on 
the  table.     "  Heave  a-head,  my  lad  !  " 


Tt^E  IVOODEM  MIDSHIPMAN  GOES  TO  PIECES.     443 

•' — latitude,"  repeated  Mr,  Toots,  with  a  startled  glance  at 
the  Captain,  "  and  longitude  so-and-so, — '  the  look-out  observed, 
half  an  hour  before  sunset,  some  fragments  of  a  wreck,  drifting 
at  about  the  distance  of  a  mile.  The  weather  being  clear,  and 
the  barque  making  no  way,  a  boat  was  hoisted  out  with  orders 
to  inspect  the  same,  when  they  were  found  to  consist  of  sundry 
large  spars,  and  a  part  of  the  main  rigging  of  an  English  brig,  of 
about  five  hundred  tons  burden,  together  with  a  portion  of  the 
stern,  on  which  the  words  and  letters  '  Son  and  H — '  were  yet 
plainly  legible.  No  vestige  of  any  dead  body  was  to  be  seen 
upon  the  floating  fragments.  Log  of  the  Defiance  states,  that  a 
breeze  springing  up  in  the  night,  the  wreck  was  seen  no  more. 
There  can  be  no  doubt  that  all  surmises  as  to  the  fate  of  the 
missing  vessel,  the  Son  and  Heir,  port  of  London,  bound  for 
Barbadoes,  are  now  set  at  rest  for  ever;  that  she  broke  up  in 
the  last  hurricane  ;  and  that  every  soul  on  board  perished.'  " 

Captain  Cuttle,  like  all  mankind,  little  knew  how  much 
hope  had  survived  within  him  under  discouragement,  until  he 
felt  its  death-shock.  During  the  reading  of  the  paragraph,  and 
for  a  minute  or  two  afterwards,  he  sat  with  his  gaze  fixed  on  the 
modest  Mr.  Toots,  like  a  man  entranced  ;  then  suddenly  rising 
and  putting  on  his  glazed  hat,  which,  in  his  visitor's  honor  he 
had  laid  upon  the  table,  the  Captain  turned  his  back,  and  bent 
his  head  down  on  the  little  chimney-piece. 

"Oh,  upon  my  word  and  honor,"  cried  Mr.  Toots,  whose 
tender  heart  was  moved  by  the  Captain's  unexpected  distress, 
"  this  is  a  most  wretched  sort  of  affair  this  world  is  !  Some- 
body's always  dying,  or  going  and  doing  something  uncomfort- 
able in  it.  I'm  sure  I  never  should  have  looked  forward  so 
much,  to  coming  into  my  property,  if  I  had  known  this.  I  never 
saw  such  a  world.     It's  a  great  deal  worse  than  Blimber's." 

Captain  Cuttle,  without  altering  his  position,  signed  to  Mr. 
Toots  not  to  mind  him  ;  and  presently  turned  round,  with  his 
glazed  hat  thrust  back  upon  his  ears,  and  his  hand  composing 
and  smoothing  his  brown  face. 

"  Wal'r,  my  dear  lad,"  said  the  Captain,  "  farewell !  VVal'r 
my  child,  my  boy,  and  man,  I  loved  you  !  He  warn't  my  flesh 
and  blood,"  said  the  Captain,  looking  at  the  fire — "  I  an't  got 
none — but  something  of  what  a  father  feels  when  he  loses  a 
son,  I  feel  in  losing  Wal'r,  For  why?"  said  the  Captain, 
"  Because  it  an't  one  loss,  but  a  round  dozen.  Where's  that 
there  young  schoolboy  with  the  rosy  face  and  curly  hair,  that 
used  to  be  as  merry  in  this  here  parlor,  come  round  e\'ery  week, 
as  a  piece  of  music  ?     Gone  down  with  Wal'r.     Where's  that 


444 


DOMnEY  AMiy  SON". 


there  fresh  lad,  that  nothing  couldn't  tire  nor  put  out,  and  that 
sparkled  up  and  blushed  so,  when  we  joked  him  about  Heart's 
Delight,  that  he  was  beautiful  to  look  at?  Gone  down  with 
Wal'V.  Where's  that  there  man's  spirit,  all  afire,  that  wouldn't 
see  the  old  man  hove  down  for  a  minute,  and  cared  nothing  for 
itself?  Gone  down  with  Wal'r.  It  an't  one  Wal'r.  There 
was  a  dozen  Wal'rs  that  I  knowed  and  loved,  all  holding  round 
his  neck  when  he  went  down,  and  they're  a-holding  round  mine 
now  !  " 

Mr.  Toots  sat  silent  :  folding  and  refolding  the  newspaper 
as  small  as  possible  upon  his  knee. 

"And  Sol  Gills,"  said  the  Captain,  gazing  at  the  fire,  "  poor 
nevyless  old  Sol,  where  Vixo.  you  got  to!  you  was  left  in  charge 
of  me  ;  his  last  words  was,  '  Take  care  of  my  uncle  ; '  What 
came  overjvw,  Sol,  when  you  went  and  gave  the  go-by  to  Ned 
Cuttle ;  and  what  am  I  to  put  in  my  accounts  that  he's  a  look- 
ing down  upon,  respecting  you  !  Sol  Gills,  Sol  Gills  !  "  said 
the  Captain,  shaking  his  head  slowly,  "  catch  sight  of  that  there 
newspaper,  away  from  home,  with  no  one  as  know'd  Wal'r  by, 
to  say  a  word,  and  broadside  to  you  broach,  and  down  you 
pitch,  head  foremost !  " 

Drawing  a  heavy  sigh,  the  Captain  turned  to  Mr.  Toots, 
and  roused  himself  to  a  sustained  consciousness  of  that  gentle- 
man's presence. 

"My  lad,"  said  the  Captain,  "you  must  tell  the  young 
woman  honestly  that  this  here  fatal  news  is  too  correct.  They 
don't  romance,  you  see,  on  such  pints.  It's  entered  on  the 
ship's  log,  and  that's  the  truest  book  as  a  man  can  write.  To- 
morrow morning,"  said  the  Captain,  "I'll  step  out  and  make 
inquiries  ;  but  they'll  lead  to  no  good.  They  can't  do  it.  If 
you'll  give  me  a  look-in  in  the  forenoon  you  shall  know  what  I 
have  heerd  ;  but  tell  the  young  woman  from  Cap'en  Cuttle,  that 
it's  over.  Over!"  And'  the  Captain,  hooking  off  his  glazed 
hat,  pulled  his  handkerchief  out  of  the  crown,  wiped  his  griz- 
zled head  despairingly,  and  tossed  the  handkerchief  in  again, 
with  the  indifference  of  deep  dejection. 

"Oh  !  I  assure  you,"  said  Mr,  Toots,  "really  I  am  dread- 
fully sorry.  Upon  my  word  I  am,  though  I  was  not  acquainted 
with  the  party.  Do  you  think  Miss  Dombey  will  be  very  much 
affected,  Captain  Gills — I  mean  Mr.  Cuttle  ?  " 

"  Why,  Lord  love  you,"  returned  the  C\Tptain,  with  some- 
thing of  compassion  for  Mr.  Toots's  iimocence.  "  When  she 
warn't  no  higher  than  that,  they  were  as  fond  of  one  anothc" 
as  two  young  doves." 


THE  WOODEN  MIDSHIPMAN  GOES  TO  PIECES.     445 

"  Were  they  though  !  "  said  Mr.  Toots,  with  a  considerably 
lengthened  face. 

"They  were  made  for  one  another,"  said  the  Captain, 
mournfully ;  "  but  what  signifies  that  now  !  " 

"  Upon  my  word  and  honor,"  cried  Mr.  Toots,  blurting  out 
his  words  through  a  singular  combination  of  awkward  chuckles 
and  emotion,  "  I'm  even  more  sorry  than  I  was  before.  You 
know.  Captain  Gills,  I — I  positively  adore  Miss  Dombey  ; — I 
— I  am  perfectly  sore  with  loving  her ;  "  the  burst  with  which 
this  confession  forced  itself  out  of  the  unhappy  Mr.  Toots,  be- 
spoke the  vehemence  of  his  feelings ;  but  what  would  be  the 
good  of  my  regarding  her  in  this  manner,  if  I  wasn't  truly  sorry 
for  her  feeling  pain,  whatever  was  the  cause  of  it.  Mine  an't 
a  selfish  affection,  you  know,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  in  the  confidence 
engendered  by  his  having  been  a  witness  of  the  Captain's  ten- 
derness. "  It's  the  sort  of  thing  with  me.  Captain  Gills,  that  if 
I  could  be  run  over — or— or  trampled  upon — or — or  thrown  off 
a  very  high  place— or  anything  of  that  sort — for  Miss  Dombey's 
sake,  it  would  be  the  most  delightful  thing  that  could  happen 
to  me." 

All  this,  Mr.  Toots  said  in  a  suppressed  voice,  to  prevent 
its  reaching  the  jealous  ears  of  the  Chicken,  who  objected  to 
the  softer  emotions;  which  effort  at  restraint,  coupled  with  the 
intensity  of  his  feelings,  made  him  red  to  the  tips  of  his  ears, 
and  caused  him  to  present  such  an  affecting  spectacle  of  disin- 
terested love  to  the  eyes  of  Captain  Cuttle,  that  the  good  Cap- 
tain patted  him  consolingly  on  the  back,  and  bade  him  cheer  up. 

"  Thankee,  Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  it's  kind  of 
you,  in  the  midst  of  your  own  troubles,  to  say  so.  I'm  very 
much  obliged  to  you.  As  I  said  before,  I  really  want  a  friend, 
and  should  be  glad  to  have  your  acquaintance.  Although  I  am 
very  well  off,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  with  energy,  "you  can't  think 
what  a  miserable  Beast  I  am.  The  hollow  crowd,  you  know, 
when  they  see  me  with  the  Chicken,  and  characters  of  distinc- 
tion like  that,  suppose  me  to  be  happy;  but  I'm  wretched.  I 
suffer  for  Miss  Dombey,  Captain  Gills.  I  can't  get  through 
my  meals ;  I  have  no  pleasure  in  my  tailor ;  I  often  cry  when 
I'm  alone.  I  assure  you  it'll  be  a  satisfaction  to  me  to  come 
back  to-morrow,  or  to  come  back  fifty  times." 

Mr.  Toots,  with  these  words,  shook  the  Captain's  hand, 
and  disguising  such  traces  of  his  agitation  as  could  be  disguised 
on  so  short  a  notice,  before  the  Chicken's  penetrating  glance, 
rejoined  that  eminent  gentleman  in  the  shop.  The  Chicken, 
who  was  apt  to  be  jealous  of  hj§  ascendency,  eyed  Captain 


446  DOMBEY  AXD  S0^\ 

Cuttle  with  anything  but  favor  as  he  took  leave  of  INir.  Toots; 
but  followed  his  patron  without  being  otherwise  demonstrative 
of  his  ill-will :  leaving  the  Captain  oppressed  with  sorrow;  and 
Rob  the  Grinder  elevated  with  joy,  on  account  of  having  had 
the  honor  of  staring  for  nearly  half  an  hour,  at  the  conqueror 
of  the  Nobby  Shropshire  One. 

Long  after  Rob  was  fast  asleep  in  his  bed  under  the  coun- 
ter, the  Captain  sat  looking  at  the  fire;  and  long  after  there 
was  no  lire  to  look  at,  the  Captain  sat  gazing  on  the  rusty  bars, 
with  unavailing  thoughts  of  Walter  and  old  Sol  crowding 
through  his  mind.  Retirement  to  the  stormy  chamber  at  the 
top  of  the  house  brought  no  rest  with  it ;  and  the  Captain  rose 
up  in  the  morning,  sorrowful  and  unrefreshed. 

As  soon  as  the  City  offices  were  open,  the  Captain  issued 
forth  to  the  counting-house  of  Dombey  and  Son.  But  there 
was  no  opening  on  the  Midshipman's  windows  that  morning. 
Rob  the  Grinder,  by  the  Captain's  orders,  left  the  shutters 
closed,  and  the  house  was  as  a  house  of  death. 

It  chanced  that  Mr.  Carker  was  entering  the  office,  as  Cap- 
tain Cuttle  arrived  at  the  door.  Receiving  the  Manager's  beni- 
son  gravely  and  silently.  Captain  Cuttle  made  bold  to  accom- 
pany him  into  his  own  room, 

"  Well,  Captain  Cuttle,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  taking  up  his 
usual  position  before  the  fireplace,  and  keeping  on  his  hat, 
"  this  is  a  bad  business." 

"  You  have  received  the  news  as  was  in  print  yesterday, 
Sir  ?  "  said  the  Captain. 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  "w^e  have  received  it!  It  was 
accurately  stated.  The  underwriters  suffer  a  considerable  loss. 
We  are  very  sorry.     No  help  !     Such  is  life  !  " 

Mr.  Carker  pared  his  nails  delicately  with  a  pen-knife,  and 
smiled  at  the  Captain,  who  was  standing  at  the  door  looking  at 
him. 

"I  excessively  regret  poor  Gay,"  said  Carker,  "and  the 
crew.  I  understand  there  were  some  of  our  very  best  men 
among  'em.  It  always  happens  so.  Many  men  with  families 
too.  A  comfort  to  reflect  that  poor  Gay  had  no  family.  Cap- 
tain Cuttle  !  " 

The  Captain  stood  rubbing  his  chin,  and  looking  at  the 
Manager.  The  Manager  glanced  at  the  unopened  letters  lying 
on  his  desk,  and  took  up  tlie  newspaper. 

"  Is  there  anything  1  can  d(j  for  you.  Captain  Cuttle  ?  "  he 
asked,  looking  off  it,  with  a  smilirg"  and  exoressive  glance  at 
the  door, 


THE  WOODEN  MIDSHTPMAN  GOES  TO  PIECES.      447 

"  I  wish  )'ou  could  set  my  mind  at  rest,  Sir,  on  something 
it's  uneasy  about,"  returned  the  Captain. 

"  Ay  !  "  exclaimed  the  manager,  "what's  that  ?  Come,  Cap- 
lain  Cuttle,  I  must  trouble  you  to  be  quick,  if  you  please.  I 
am  much  engaged." 

"  Looke'e  here.  Sir,"  said  the  Captain,  advancing  a  step. 
"Afore  my  friend  Wal'r  went  on  this  here  disastrous  voy- 
age  " 

"Come,  come.  Captain  Cuttle,"  interposed  the  smiling 
Manager,  "  don't  talk  about  disastrous  voyages  in  that  way. 
We  have  nothing  to  do  with  disastrous  voyages  here,  my  good 
fellow.  You  must  have  begun  very  early  on  your  day's' allow- 
ance, Captain,  if  you  don't  remember  that  there  are  hazards  iri 
all  voyages  whether  by  sea  or  land.  You  are  not  made  uneasy 
by  the  supposition  that  young  what's-his-name  was  lost  in  bad 
weather  that  was  got  up  against  him  in  these  offices — are  you  ? 
Fie,  Captain !  Sleep,  and  soda-water,  are  the  best  cures  for 
such  uneasiness  as  that." 

"My  lad,"  returned  the  Captain  slowly — "you  are  a'most  a 
lad  to  me,  and  so  I  don't  ask  your  pardon  for  that  slip  of  a 
word, — if  you  find  any  pleasure  in  this  here  sport,  you  an't 
the  gentleman  I  took  you  for,  and  if  you  an't  the  gentleman  I 
took  you  for,  may  be  my  mind  has  call  to  be  uneasy.  Now  this 
is  what  it  is,  Mr.  Carker. — Afore  that  poor  lad  went  away,  ac- 
cording to  orders,  he  told  me  he  warn't  a  going  away  for  his 
own  good,  or  for  promotion,  he  know'd.  It  was  my  belief  that 
he  was  wrong,  and  I  told  him  so,  and  I  come  here,  your  head 
governor  being  absent,  to  ask  a  question  or  two  of  you  in  a 
civil  way,  for  my  own  satisfaction.  Them  questions  you  an- 
swered— free.  Now  it'll  ease  my  mind  to  know,  when  all  is 
over,  as  it  is,  and  when  what  can't  be  cured  must  be  endoored 
— for  which  as  a  scholar,  you'll  overhaul  the  book  it's  in,  and 
thereof  make  a  note — to  know  once  more,  in  a  word,  that  I 
warn't  mistaken  ;  and  that  I  warn't  back'ard  in  my  duty  when  I 
didn't  tell  the  old  man  what  Wal'r  told  me ;  and  that  the  wind 
was  truly  in  his  sail,  when  he  highsted  of  it  for  Barbadoes  Har- 
bor. Mr,  Carker,"  said  the  Captain,  in  the  goodness  of  his 
nature,  "  when  I  was  here  last,  we  was  very  pleasant  together. 
If  I  an't  been  altogether  so  pleasant  myself  this  morning,  on 
account  of  this  poor  lad,  and  if  I  have  chafed  again  any  obser- 
vation of  yours  that  I  might  have  fended  olif,  my  name  is  Ed'ard 
Cuttle,  and  I  ask  your  pardon." 

"Captain  Cuttle,"  returned  the  Manager,  with  all  possible 
politeness.  "  I  mvist  ask  vpu  K  do  me  fi.  favpiv" 


448  DOMBEY  AND  son: 

"  And  what  is  it,  Sir  ?  "  inquired  the  Captain, 

"  To  have  the  goodness  to  walk  off,  if  you  please,"  rejoined 
the  Manager,  stretching  forth  his  arm,  "  and  to  carry  your  jar- 
gon somewhere  else." 

Every  knob  in  the  Captain's  face  turned  white  with  astonish- 
ment and  indignation  ;  even  the  red  rim  on  his  forehead  faded, 
like  a  rainbow  among  the  gathering  clouds. 

"  I  tell  you  what,  Captain  Cuttle,"  said  the  Manager,  shak- 
ing his  forefinger  at  him,  and  showing  him  all  his  teeth,  but 
still  amiably  smiling,  "  I  was  much  too  lenient  with  you,  when 
you  came  here  before.  You  belong  to  an  artful  and  audacious 
set  of  people.  In  my  desire  to  save  young  what's-his-name 
from  being  kicked  out  of  this  place,  neck  and  crop,  my  good 
Captain,  I  tolerated  you  ;  but  for  once,  and  only  once.  Now, 
go,  my  friend  !  " 

The  Captain  was  absolutely  rooted  to  the  ground,  and 
speechless. 

"  Go,"  said  the  good-humored  Manager,  gathering  up  his 
skirts,  and  standing  astride  upon  the  hearth-rug,  "  like  a  sensi- 
ble fellow,  and  let  us  have  no  turning  out,  or  any  such  violent 
measures.  If  Mr.  Dombey  were  here.  Captain,  you  might  be 
obliged  to  leave  in  a  more  ignominious  manner,  possibly.  I 
merely  say,  Go  !  " 

The  Captain,  laying  his  ponderous  hand  upon  his  chest,  to 
assist  himself  in  fetching  a  deep  breath,  looked  at  Mr.  Carker 
from  head  to  foot,  and  looked  round  the  little  room,  as  if  he  did 
not  clearly  understand  where  he  was,  or  in  what  company. 

"You  are  deep.  Captain  Cuttle,"  pursued  Carker,  with  the 
easy  and  vivacious  frankness  of  a  man  of  the  world  who  knew 
the  world  too  well  to  be  ruffled  by  any  discovery  of  misdoing, 
when  it  did  not  immediately  concern  himself  ;  "  but  you  are 
not  quite  out  of  soundings,  either — neither  you  nor  your  absent 
friend.  Captain.  What  have  you  done  with  your  absent  friend, 
hey  ? " 

Again  the  Captain  laid  his  hand  upon  his  chest.  After 
drawing  another  deep  breath,  he  conjured  himself  to  "  stand 
by  ?  "     But  in  a  whisper. 

"  You  hatch  nice  little  plots,  and  hold  nice  little  councils, 
and  make  nice  little  appointments,  and  receive  nice  little  visi- 
tors, too,  Captain,  hey  ? "  said  Carker,  bending  his  brows  upon 
him,  without  showing  his  teeth  any  the  less  :  "bat  it's  a  bold 
measure  to  come  here  afterwards.  Not  like  your  discretion ! 
You  conspirators,  and  hidcrs,  and  runners-away,  should  know 
better  than  that.     Will  yovi  olilige  me  by  going.?  " 


THE  IVOODEiV  Mlb^IIIPMAK  GOES  TO  PIECES. 


449 


"  My  lad,"  gasped  the  Captain,  in  a  choked  and  trembling 
voice,  and  with  a  curious  action  going  on  in  the  ponderous  fist ; 
"there's  a  many  words  I  could  wish  to  say  to  you,  but  I  don't 
rightly  know  where  they're  stowed  just  at  present.  My  young 
friend  Wal'r,  was  drownded  only  last  night,  according  to  my 
reckoning,  and  it  puts  me  out,  you  see.  But  you  and  me  will 
come  alongside  o'  one  another  again,  my  lad,"  said  the  Captain, 
holding  up  his  hook,  "  if  we  live." 

"  It  will  be  anything  but  shrewd  in  you,  my  good  fellow,  if 
we  do,"  returned  the  Manager,  with  the  same  frankness  ;  "  for 
you  may  rely,  I  give  you  fair  warning,  upon  my  detecting  and 
exposing  you.  I  don't  pretend  to  be  a  more  moral  man  than 
my  neighbors,  my  good  Captain  ;  but  the  confidence  of  this 
house,  or  of  any  member  of  this  house,  is  not  to  be  abused  and 
undermined  while  I  have  eye  and  ears.  Good-day  !  "  said  Mr. 
Carker,  nodding  his  head. 

Captain  Cuttle,  looking  at  him  steadily  (Mr.  Carker  looked 
full  as  steadily  at  the  Captain),  went  out  of  the  office  and  left 
him  standing  astride  before  the  fire,  as  calm  and  pleasant  as  if 
there  were  no  more  spots  upon  his  soul  than  on  his  pure  white 
linen,  and  his  smooth  sleek  skin. 

The  Captain  glanced,  in  passing  through  the  outer  counting- 
house,  at  the  desk  where  he  knew  poor  Walter  had  been  used 
to  sit,  now  occupied  by  another  young  boy,  with  a  face  almost 
as  fresh  and  hopeful  as  his  on  the  day  when  they  tapped  the 
famous  last  bottle  but  one  of  the  old  Madeira,  in  the  little  back 
parlor.  The  association  of  ideas,  thus  awakened,  did  the 
Captain  a  great  deal  of  good ;  it  softened  him  in  the  very  height 
of  his  anger,  and  brought  the  tears  into  his  eyes. 

Arrived  at  the  Wooden  Midshipman's  again,  and  sitting 
down  in  a  corner  of  the  dark  shop,  the  Captain's  indignation, 
strong  as  it  was,  could  make  no  head  against  his  grief.  Passion 
seemed  not  only  to  do  wrong  and  violence  to  the  memory  of 
the  dead,  but  to  be  infected  by  death,  and  to  droop  and  decline 
beside  it.  All  the  living  knaves  and  liars  in  the  world,  were 
nothing  to  the  honesty  and  truth  of  one  dead  friend. 

The  only  thing  the  honest  Captain  made  out  clearly,  in  this 
state  of  mind,  besides  the  loss  of  Walter  was,  that  with  him 
almost  the  whole  world  of  Captain  Cuttle  had  been  drowned. 
If  he  reproached  himself  sometimes,  and  keenly  too,  for  having 
ever  connived  at  Walter's  innocent  deceit,  he  thought  at  least 
as  often  of  the  Mr.  Carker  whom  no  sea  could  ever  render  up  : 
and  the  Mr.  Dombey,  whom  he  now  began  to  perceive  was  as 
far  beyond  human  recall;   and  the  "  Heart's  Delight,"  with 


4S<> 


DOM  BEY  AND  SON. 


whom  he  must  never  foregather  again  ;  and  the  Lovely  Peg, 
that  teak-built  and  trim  ballad,  that  had  gone  ashore  upon  a 
rock,  and  split  into  mere  planks  and  beams  of  rhyme.  The 
Captain  sat  in  the  dark  shop,  thinkinr;  of  these  things,  to  the 
entire  exclusion  of  his  own  injury ,  and  looking  with  as  sad  an 
eye  upon  the  ground,  as  if  in  contemplation  of  their  actual 
fragments  as  they  floated  past  him 

But  the  Captain  was  not  unmindful,  for  all  that,  of  such  de- 
cent and  respectful  observances  in  memory  of  poor  Waiter,  as 
he  felt  within  his  power.  Rousing  himself,  and  rousing  Rob 
the  Grinder  (who  in  the  unnatural  twilight  was  fast  asleep),  the 
Captain  sallied  forth  with  his  attendant  at  his  heels,  and  the 
door-key  in  his  pocket,  and  repairing  to  one  of  those  con- 
venient slop-selling  establishments,  of  which  there  is  abundant 
choice  at  the  eastern  end  of  London,  purchased  on  the  spot 
two  suits  of  mourning,  one  for  Rob  the  Grinder,  which  was 
immensely  too  small,  and  one  for  himself,  which  was  immensely 
too  large.  He  also  provided  Rob  with  a  species  of  hat,  greatly 
to  be  admired  for  its  symmetry  and  usefulness,  as  well  as  for  a 
happy  blending  of  the  mariner  with  the  coal-heaver ;  which  is 
usually  termed  a  sou'wester ;  and  which  was  something  of  a 
novelty  in  connection  with  the  instrument  business.  In  their 
several  garments,  which  the  vendor  declared  to  be  such  a 
miracle  in  point  of  fit  as  nothing  but  a  rare  combination  of 
fortuitous  circumstances  ever  brought  about,  and  the  fashion  of 
which  was  unparalleled  within  the  memory  of  the  oldest  in- 
habitant, the  Captain  and  Grinder  immediately  arrayed  them- 
selves :  presenting  a  spectacle  fraught  with  wonder  to  all  who 
beheld  it. 

In  this  altered  form,  the  Captain  received  Mr.Toots.  "  I'm 
took  aback,  my  lad,  at  present,"  said  the  Captain,  "  and  will 
only  confirm  that  there  ill  news.  Tell  the  young  woman  to 
break  it  gentle  to  the  young  lady,  and  for  neitlier  of  'em  never 
to  think  of  me  no  more — 'special,  mind  you,  that  is — though  I 
will  think  of  them,  when  night  comes  on  a  hurricane  and  seas 
is  mountains  rowling,  for  which  overhaul  your  Doctor  Watts, 
brother,  and  when  found  make  a  note  on." 

The  Captain  reserved,  until  some  fitter  time,  the  con- 
sideration of  Mr.  Toots's  offer  of  friendship,  and  thus  dismissed 
him.  Captain  Cuttle's  spirits  were  so  low,  in  truth,  that  he 
half  determined,  that  day,  to  take  no  further  precautions  against 
surprise  from  Mrs.  MacSlinger,  but  to  abandon  himself  reck 
lessly  to  chance,  and  be  indifferent  to  what  might  hapjien.  As 
evening  came  on,  he  fell  into  a  better  frame  of  mind,  however, 


C0J^TJ?AS7S. 


45* 


and  spoke  much  of  Walter  to  Rob  the  Grinder,  whose  attention 
and  fidelity  he  likewise  incidentally  commended.  Rob  did  not 
blush  to  hear  the  Captain  earnest  in  his  praises,  but  sat  staring 
at  him,  and  affecting  to  snivel  with  sympathy,  and  making  a 
feint  of  being  virtuous,  and  treasuring  up  every  world  he  said 
(like  a  young  spy  as  he  was)  with  very  promising  deceit. 

When  Rob  had  turned  in,  and  was  fast  asleep,  the  Captain 
trimmed  the  candle,  put  on  his  spectacles — he  had  felt  it 
appropriate  to  take  to  spectacles  on  entering  into  the  In- 
strument Trade,  though  his  eyes  were  like  a  hawk's — and  opened 
the  prayer-book  at  the  Burial  Service.  And  reading  softly  to 
himself,  in  the  little  back  parlor,  and  stopping  now  and  then  to 
wipe  his  eyes,  the  Captain,  in  a  true  and  simple  spirit,  com- 
mitted Walter's  body  to  the  deep. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

CONTRASTS. 


Turn  we  our  eyes  upon  two  homes  ;  not  lying  side  by  side, 
but  wide  apart,  though  both  within  easy  range  and  reach  of  the 
great  city  of  London. 

The  first  is  situated  in  the  green  and  wooded  country  near 
Norwood.  It  is  not  a  mansion  :  it  is  of  no  pretensions  as  to 
size ;  but  it  is  beautifully  arranged,  and  tastefully  kept.  The 
lawn,  the  soft,  smooth  slope,  the  flower-garden,  the  clumps  of 
trees  where  graceful  forms  of  ash  and  willow  are  not  wanting, 
the  conservator^',  the  rustic  verandah  with  sweet  smelling 
creeping  plants  entwined  about  the  pillars,  the  simple  exterior 
of  the  house,  the  well-ordered  offices,  though  all  upon  the 
diminutive  scale  proper  to  a  mere  cottage,  bespeak  an  amount 
of  elegant  comfort  within,  that  might  serve  for  a  palace.  This 
indication  is  not  without  warrant ;  for  within  it  is  a  house  of 
refinement  and  luxury.  Rich  colors,  excellently  blended,  meet 
the  eye  at  every  turn  ;  in  the  furniture— its  proportions  admirably 
devised  to  suit  the  shapes  and  sizes  of  the  small  rooms  ;  on  the 
walls  ;  upon  the  floors  ,  tinging  and  subduing  the  light  that 
comes  in  through  the  odd  glass  doors  and  windows  here  and 
there.  There  are  a  few  choice  prints  and  pictures  too ;  in 
quaint   nooks  and  recesses  there  is  no  want  of  books ;  and 


4gjj  DOMBE  V  AND  SON. 

there  are  games  of  skill  and  chance  set  forth  on  tables — fan 
tastic  chessmen,  dice,  backgammon,  cards,  and  billiards. 

And  yet  amidst  this  opulence  of  comfort,  there  is  something 
in  the  general  air  that  is  not  well.  Is  it  that  the  carpets  and 
the  cushions  are  too  soft  and  noiseless,  so  that  those  who  move 
or  repose  among  them  seem  to  act  by  stealth  !  Is  it  that  the 
prints  and  pictures  do  not  commemorate  great  thoughts  or 
deeds,  or  render  nature  in  the  poetry  of  landscape,  hall,  or  hut, 
but  are  of  one  voluptuous  cast — mere  shows  of  form  and  color 
• — and  no  more  ?  Is  it  that  the  books  have  all  their  gold  out- 
side, and  that  the  titles  of  the  greater  part  qualify  them  to  be 
companions  of  the  prints  and  pictures.''  Is  it  that  the  com- 
pleteness and  the  beauty  of  the  place  are  here  and  there  belied 
by  an  affectation  of  humility,  in  some  unimportant  and  in- 
expensive regard,  which  is  as  false  as  the  face  of  the  too  truly 
painted  portrait  hanging  yonder,  or  its  original  at  breakfast  in 
his  easy  chair  below  it  ?  Or  is  it  that,  with  the  daily  breath  of 
that  original  and  master  of  all  here,  there  issues  forth  some 
subtle  portion  of  himself,  which  gives  a  vague  expression  of 
himself  to  everything  about  him  ? 

It  is  Mr,  Carker  the  Manager  who  sits  in  the  easy  chair. 
A  gaudy  parrot  in  a  burnished  cage  upon  the  table  tears  at  the 
wires  with  her  beak,  and  goes  walking,  upside  down,  in  its 
dome-top,  shaking  her  house  and  screeching ;  but  Mr.  Carker 
is  indifferent  to  the  bird,  and  looks  with  a  musing  smile  at  a 
picture  on  the  opposite  wall. 

"  A  most  extraordinary  accidental  likeness,  certainly,"  says 
he. 

Perhaps  it  is  a  Juno  ;  perhaps  a  Potiphar's  Wife  ;  perhaps 
some  scornful  Nymph — according  as  the  Picture  Dealers  found 
the  market,  when  they  christened  it.  It  is  the  figure  of  a 
woman,  supremely  handsome,  who  turning  away  with  her 
face  addressed  to  the  spectator,  flashes  her  proud  glance  upon 
him. 

It  is  like  Edith. 

With  a  passing  gesture  of  his  hand  at  the  picture — what  !  a 
menace  1  No  ;  yet  something  like  it.  A  wave  as  of  triumph  ? 
No  ;  yet  more  like  that.  An  insolent  salute  wafted  from  his 
lips  ?  No ;  yet  like  that  too — he  resumes  his  breakfast,  and 
calls  to  the  cliafing  and  imprisoned  bird,  who  coming  down  into  a 
pendant  gilded  hoop  within  the  cage,  like  a  great  wedding-ring, 
swings  in  it,  for  his  delight. 

The  second  home  is  on  the  other  side  of  London,  near  to 
where  the  busy  great  north  road  of  by-gone  days  is  silent  and 


CONTRASTS.  453 

almost  deserted,  except  by  wayfarers  who  toil  along  on  foot. 
It  is  a  poor,  small  house,  barely  and  sparely  furnished,  but  very 
clean  ;  and  there  is  even  an  attempt  to  decorate  it,  shown  in 
the  homely  flowers  trained  about  the  porch  and  in  the  narrow 
garden.  The  neighborhood  in  which  it  stands  has  as  little  of 
the  country  to  recommend  it,  as  it  has  of  the  town.  It  is 
neither  of  the  town  nor  country.  The  former,  like  the  giant  in 
his  travelling  boots,  has  made  a  stride  and  passed  it,  and  has 
set  his  brick-and-mortar  heel  a  long  way  in  advance  ;  but  the 
intermediate  space  between  the  giant's  feet,  as  yet,  is  only 
blighted  country,  and  not  town  ;  and,  here,  among  a  few  tall 
chimneys  belching  smoke  all  day  and  night,  and  among  the 
brick-fields  and  the  lanes  where  turf  is  cut,  and  where  the  fences 
tumble  down,  and  where  the  dusty  nettles  grow,  and  where  a 
scrap  or  two  of  hedge  may  yet  be  seen,  and  where  the  bird- 
catcher  still  comes  occasionally,  though  he  swears  every  time 
to  come  no  more — this  second  home  is  to  be  found. 

She  who  inhabits  it,  is  she  who  left  the  first  in  her  devotion 
to  an  outcast  brother.  She  withdrew  from  that  home  its  re- 
deeming spirit,  and  from  its  master's  breast  his  solitary  angel : 
but  though  his  liking  for  her  is  gone,  after  this  ungrateful  slight 
as  he  considers  it ;  and  though  he  abandons  her  altogether  in 
return,  an  old  idea  of  her  is  not  quite  forgotten  even  by  him. 
Let  her  flower-garden,  in  which  he  never  sets  his  foot,  but  which 
is  yet  maintained,  among  all  his  costly  alterations,  as  if  she  had 
quitted  it  but  yesterday,  bear  witness  ! 

Harriet  Carker  has  changed  since  then,  and  on  her  beauty 
there  has  fallen  a  heavier  shade  than  Time  of  his  unassisted 
self  can  cast,  all-potent  as  he  is — the  shadow  of  anxiety  and 
sorrow,  and  the  daily  struggle  of  a  poor  existence.  But  it  is 
beauty  still ;  and  still  a  gentle,  quiet,  and  retiring  beauty  that 
must  be  sought  out,  for  it  cannot  vaunt  itself ;  if  it  could,  it 
would  be  what  it  is,  no  more. 

Yes.  This  slight,  small,  patient  figure,  neatly  dressed  in 
homely  stuffs,  and  indicating  nothing  but  the  dull,  household 
virtues,  that  have  so  little  in  common  with  the  received  idea  of 
heroism  and  greatness,  unless,  indeed,  any  ray  of  them  should 
shine  through  the  lives  of  the  great  ones  of  the  earth,  when  it 
becomes  a  constellation  and  is  tracked  in  Heaven  straightway 
— this  slight,  small,  patient  figure,  leaning  on  the  man  still 
young  but  worn  and  gray,  is  she  his  sister,  who,  of  all  the  world, 
•went  over  to  him  in  his  shame  and  put  her  hand  in  his,  and 
with  a  sweet  composure  and  determination,  led  him  hopefully 
\ipon  his  barrefi  waj^. 


^j^  DOMBEY  AXD  SON. 

"  It  is  early,  Jo^in,"  she  said.     "  Why  do  you  go  so  early  ?  " 
"  Not  many  minutes  earlier  than  usual,  Harriet.     If  I  have 
the  time  to  spare,  I  should  like,  I  think — it's  a  fancy — to  walk 
once  by  the  house  where  I  took  leave  of  him." 
"  I  wish  I  had  ever  seen  or  known  him,  John." 
"  It  is  better  as  it  is,  my  dear,  remembering  his  fate." 
*'  But  I  could  not  regret  it  more,  though  I  had  known  him. 
Is  not  your  sorrow  mine  ?     And  if  I   had  perhaps  you  would 
feel  that  I  was  a  better  companion   to  you  in  speaking  about 
him,  than  I  may  seem  now." 

"  My  dearest  sister !  Is  there  anything  within  the  range 
of  rejoicing  or  regret,  in  which  I  am  not  sure  of  your  compan- 
ionship?" 

"  I  hope  you  think  not,  John,  for  surely  there  is  nothing  ! " 

"  How  could  you  be  better  to  me,  or  nearer  to  me   then, 

than  you  are  in  this,  or  anything  ?  "  said  her  brother.     "  I  feel 

that  you  did  know  him,  Harriet,  and  that  you  shared  my  feel- 

ings  towards  him." 

She  drew  the  hand  which  had  been  resting  on  his  shoulder, 
round  his  neck,  and  answered  with  some  hesitation. 
"  No  not  quite." 

*'  True,  true  !  "  he  said  ;  "  you  think  I  might  have  done  him 
no  harm  if  I  had  allowed  myself  to  know  him  better  t  " 
"  Think  !  I  know  it." 

"  Designedly,  Heaven  knows  I  would  not,"  he  replied,  shak- 
ing his  head  mournfully  ;  "  but  his  reputation  was  too  precious 
to  be  perilled  by  such  association.     Whether  you  share  that 
knowledge,  or  do  not,  my  dear — " 
"  I  do  not,"  she  said  quietly. 

"  It  is  still  the  truth,  Harriet,  and  my  mind  is  lighter  when 
I  think  of  him  for  that  which  made  it  so  much  heavier  then." 
He  checked  himself  in  his  tone  of  melancholy,  and  smiled 
upon  her  as  he  said  "  Good-by !  " 

"  Good-by,  dear  John  !  In  the  evening,  at  the  old  time 
and  place,  I  shall  meet  you  as  usual  on  your  way  home.  Good- 
by." 

The  cordial  face  she  lifted  up  to  his  to  kiss  him,  was  his 
home,  his  life,  his  universe,  and  yet  it  was  a  portion  of  his  pun- 
ishment and  grief ;  for  in  the  cloud  he  saw  upon  it — though 
serene  and  calm  as  any  radiant  cloud  at  sunset — and  in  the 
constancy  and  devotion  of  her  life,  and  in  the  sacrifice  she  had 
made  of  ease,  enjoyment,  and  hope,  he  saw  the  bitter  fruits  of 
his  old  crime,  for  e\er  ripe  and  fresh. 

§he  Stood  at  the  door  looking  after  hjm,  with  her  hand? 


CUA''J'A'AST^.  4^  J 

Joosely  clasped  in  each  other,  as  he  made  his  way  over  the 
frowzy  and  uneven  patch  of  ground  which  lay  before  their 
house,  which  had  once  (and  not  long  ago)  been  a  pleasant 
meadow,  and  was  now  a  very  waste,  with  a  disorderly  crop  of 
beginnings  of  mean  houses,  rising  out  of  the  rubbish,  as  if  thev 
had  been  unskilfully  sown  there.  Whenever  he  looked  back-^ 
as  once  or  twice  he  did — her  cordial  face  shone  like  a  light  upon 
his  heart ;  but  when  he  plodded  on  his  way,  and  saw  her  not, 
the  tears  were  in  her  eyes  as  she  stood  watching  him. 

Her  pensive  form  was  not  long  idle  at  the  door.  There 
was  dauy  duty  to  discharge,  and  daily  work  to  do — for  such 
common-place  spirits  that  are  not  heroic,  often  work  hard  with 
their  hands — and  Harriet  was  soon  busy  with  her  household 
tasks.  These  discharged,  and  the  poor  house  made  quite  neat 
and  orderly,  she  counted  her  little  stock  of  money,  with  an 
anxious  face,  and  went  out  thoughtfully  to  buy  some  necessaries 
for  their  table,  planning  and  contriving,  as  she  went,  how  to 
save.  So  sordid  are  the  lives  of  such  low  natures,  who  are 
not  only  not  heroic  to  their  valets  and  waiting-women,  but  have 
neither  valets  nor  waiting-women  to  be  heroic  to  withal  1 

While  she  was  absent,  and  there  was  no  one  in  the  house, 
there  approached  it  by  a  different  way  from  that  the  brother 
had  taken,  a  gentleman,  a  very  little  past  his  prime  of  life  per- 
haps, but  of  a  healthy  florid  hue,  an  upright  presence,  and  a 
bright  clear  aspect,  that  was  gracious  and  good-humored.  His 
eyebrows  were  still  black,  and  so  was  much  of  his  hair ;  the 
sprinkling  of  gray  observable  among  the  latter,  graced  the 
former  very  much,  and  showed  his  broad  frank  brow  and  honest 
eyes  to  great  advantage. 

After  knocking  once  at  the  door,  and  obtaining  no  response, 
this  gentleman  sat  down  on  a  bench  in  the  little  porch  to  wait. 
A  certain  skilful  action  of  his  fingers  as  he  hummed  some  bars, 
and  beat  time  on  the  seat  beside  him,  seemed  to  denote  the 
musician  ;  and  the  extraordinary  satisfaction  he  derived  from 
humming  something  very  slow  and  long,  which  had  no  recog- 
nizable tune,  seemed  to  denote  that  he  was  a  scientific  one. 

The  gentleman  was  still  twirling  a  theme,  which  seemed  to 
go  round  and  round  and  round,  and  in  and  in  and  in,  and  to 
mvolve  itself  like  a  corkscrew  twirled  upon  a  table,  without 
getting  any  nearer  to  anything,  when  Harriet  appeared  return- 
ing. He  rose  up  as  she  advanced,  and  stood  with  his  head 
uncovered. 

"  You  are  come  again,  Sir  !  "  she  said,  faltering. 


^c6  1)0 M BEY  AND  SOM. 

"  I  take  that  liberty,"  he  answered.  "  isray  I  ask  for  fiv« 
minutes  of  your  leisure  ?  " 

After  a  moment's  hesitation,  she  opened  the  door,  and  gave 
him  admission  to  the  little  parlor.  The  gentleman  sat  down 
there,  drew  his  chair  to  the  table  over  against  her,  and  said,  in 
a  voice  that  perfectly  corresponded  to  his  appearance,  and  with 
a  simplicity  that  was  very  engaging  : 

"  Miss  Harriet,  you  cannot  be  proud.  You  signified  to  me, 
when  I  called  t'other  morning,  that  you  were.  Pardon  me  if  \ 
say  that  I  looked  into  your  face  while  you  spoke,  and  that  it 
contradicted  you.  I  look  into  it  again,"  he  added,  laying  his 
hand  gently  on  her  arm,  for  an  instant,  "  and  it  contradicts 
you  more  and  more." 

She  was  somewhat  confused  and  agitated,  and  could  make 
no  ready  answer. 

"  It  is  the  mirror  of  truth,"  said  her  visitor,  "  and  gentle- 
ness.    Excuse  my  trusting  to  it,  and  returning." 

His  manner  of  saying  these  words,  divested  them  entirely 
of  the  character  of  compliments.  It  was  so  plain,  grave,  un- 
affected, and  sincere,  that  she  bent  her  head,  as  if  at  once  to 
thank  him,  and  acknowledge  his  sincerity. 

"  The  disparity  between  our  ages,"  said  the  gentleman, 
"  and  the  plainness  of  my  purpose,  empower  me,  I  am  glad  to 
think,  to  speak  my  mind.  That  is  my  mind  ;  and  so  you  see 
me  for  the  second  time." 

"  There  is  a  kind  of    pride,   Sir,"    she  returned,  after  a 
moment's   silence,  "or   what   may  be  supposed  to  be  pride, 
which  is  mere  duty.     I  hope  I  cherish  no  other." 
"  For  yourself,"  he  said. 
"  For  myself." 

"  But — pardon  me — "  suggested  the  gentleman.  "  For  your 
brother  John  ?  " 

"Proud  of  his  love,  I  am,"  said  Harriet,  looking  full  upon 
her  visitor,  and  changing  her  manner  on  the  instant — not  that 
it  was  less  composed  and  quiet,  but  that  there  was  a  deep  im- 
passionrd  earnestness  in  it  that  made  the  very  tremble  in  lier 
voice  a  part  of  her  firmness,  "  and  proud  of  him.  Sir,  you  wlio 
strangely  know  the  story  of  his  life,  and  repeated  it  to  me  when 
you  were  here  last — " 

"  Merely  to  make  my  way  into  your  confidence,"  interposed 
the  gentleman.     "  For  heaven's  sake  don't  suppose — " 

"I  am  sure,"  siie  said,  "you  revived  it,  in  my  hearing, 
with  a  kind  and  good  purpose.     I  am  quite  sure  of  it." 

"I   thank  you,"  returned  her   visitor,  pressing   her   hand 


CONTRASTS.  457 

hastily.  "  I  am  much  obliged  to  you.  You  do  me  justice,  I 
assure  you.  You  were  going  to  say,  that  I,  who  know  the  story 
of  John  Carker's  life " 

"  May  think  it  pride  in  me,"  she  continued,  "  when  I  say 
that  I  am  proud  of  him !  I  atn.  You  know  the  time  was,  when 
I  was  not— when  I  could  not  be — but  that  is  past.  The  humility 
of  many  years,  the  uncomplaining  expiation,  the  true  repent- 
ance, the  terrible  regret,  the  pain  I  know  he  has  even  in  my 
affection,  which  he  thinks  has  cost  me  dear,  though  Heaven 
knows  I  am  happy,  but  for  his  sorrow  : — oh,  Sir,  after  what  I 
have  seen,  let  me  conjure  you,  if  you  are  in  anyplace  of  po^yer, 
and  are  ever  wronged,  never,  for  any  wrong,  inflict  a  punish- 
ment that  cannot  be  recalled  ;  while  there  is  a  God  above  us 
to  work  changes  in  the  hearts  He  made." 

"  Your  brother  is  an  altered  man,"  returned  the  gentleman, 
compassionately.     "  I  assure  you  I  don't  doubt  it."_ 

"  He  was  an  altered  man  when  he  did  wrong,"  said  Harriet. 
"  He  is  an  altered  man  again,  and  is  his  true  self  now,  believe 
me,  Sir." 

"  But  we  go  on,"  said  her  visitor,  rubbing  his  forehead,  m 
an  absent  manner,  with  his  hand,  and  then  drumming  thought- 
fully on  the  table,  "  we  go  on  in  our  clock-work  routine,  from 
day  to  day,  and  can't  make  out,  or  follow,  these  changes. 
They — they're  a  metaphysical  sort  of  thing.  We — we  haven't 
leisure  for  it.  We — we  haven't  courage.  They're  not  taught 
at  schools  or  colleges,  and  we  don't  know  how  to  set  about  it.; 

In  short,  we  are  so  d d  business-like,"  said  the  gentlenian,! 

walking  to  the  window,  and  back,  and  sitting  down  again,  in  ai 
state  of  extreme  dissatisfaction  and  vexation. 

"  I  am  sure,"  said  the  gentleman,  rubbing  his  forehead 
again  ;  and  drumming  on  the  table  as  before,  "  I  have  good 
reason  to  believe  that  a  jog-trot  life,  the  same  from  day  to  day, 
would  reconcile  one  to  anything.  One  don't  see  anything,  one 
don't  hear  anything,  one  don't  know  anything  ;  that's  the  fact. 
We  go  on  taking  everything  for  granted,  and  so  we  go  on,  until 
whatever  we  do,  good,  bad,  or  indifferent,  we  do  from  habit. 
Habit  is  all  I  shall  have  to  report,  when  I  am  called  upon  to 
plead  to  my  conscience,  on  my  death-bed.  *  Habit,'  says  I ; 
*  I  was  deaf,  dumb,  blind,  and  paralytic,  to  a  million  things, 
from' habit.'  'Very  business-like  indeed,  Mr.  What's-your- 
name,'  says  Conscience,  'but  it  won't  do  here  ! '  " 

The  gentleman  got  up  and  walked  to  the  window  again  and 
back :  seriously  uneasy,  though  giving  his  uneasiness  this  pecu 
liar  expression. 


4^8  Do^r^R  v  axd  soa: 

"  Miss  Harriet,"  he  said,  resuming  his  chair,  "  I  wish  you 
would  let  me  serve  you.  Look  at  me  ;  I  ought  to  look  honest, 
for  1  know  I  am  so,  at  present.     Do  I  ? " 

"  Yes,"  she  answered  with  a  smile. 

"  I  believe  every  word  you  have  said,"  he  returned.  ''  I 
am  full  of  self-reproach  that  I  might  have  known  this  and  seen 
this,  and  known  you  and  seen  you,  any  time  these  dozen  years, 
and  that  I  never  have.  I  hardly  know  how  I  ever  got  here — • 
creature  that  I  am,  not  only  of  my  own  habit,  but  ot  other  peo- 
ple's !  But  having  done  so,  let  me  do  something.  I  ask  it  in 
all  honor  and  respect.  You  inspire  me  with  both,  in  the  high- 
est degree.     Let  me  do  something." 

"  We  are  contented.  Sir." 

"  No,  no,  not  quite,"  returned  the  gentleman.  "  I  think 
not  quite.  There  are  some  little  comforts  that  might  smooth 
your  life,  and  his.  And  his  !  "  he  repeated,  fancying  that  had 
made  some  impression  on  her.  "  I  have  been  in  the  habit  of 
thinking  that  there  was  nothing  wanting  to  be  done  for  him  ; 
that  it  was  all  settled  and  over  ;  in  short,  of  not  thinking  at 
all  about  it.  I  am  different  now.  Let  me  do  something  for 
him.  You  too,"  said  the  visitor,  with  careful  delicacy,  "have 
need  to  watch  your  health  closely,  for  his  sake,  and  I  fear  it 
fails." 

"  Whoever  you  may  be.  Sir,"  answered  Harriet,  raising  hei 
eyes  to  his  face,  "  I  am  deeply  grateful  to  you.  I  feel  certain 
that  in  all  you  say,  you  have  no  object  in  the  world  but  kind- 
ness to  us.  But  years  have  passed  since  we  began  this  life  ; 
and  to  take  from  my  brother  any  part  of  what  has  so  endeared 
him  to  me,  and  so  proved  his  better  resolution — any  fragment 
of  the  merit  of  his  unassisted,  obscure,  and  forgotten  repara- 
tion--would  be  to  diminish  the  comfort  it  will  be  to  him  and 
me,  when  that  time  comes  to  each  of  us,  of  which  you  spoke 
just  now.  I  thank  you  better  with  these  tears  than  any  words. 
Believe  it,  pray." 

The  gentleman  was  moved,  and  put  the  hand  she  held  out, 
to  his  lips,  much  as  a  tender  father  might  kiss  the  hand  of  a 
dutiful  child.      But  more  reverently. 

"  It  tlie  day  should  ever  come,"  said  Harriet,  "when  he  is 
restored,  in  part,  to  the  position  he  lost " 

"Restored!"  cried  the  gentleman,  quickly.  "How  can 
that  be  hoped  for?  In  whose  hands  does  the  power  of  any 
restoration  lie?  It  is  no  mistake  ot  mine,  surely,  to  suppose 
that  his  having  gained  the  priceless  blessing  of  his  life,  is  one 
cause  of  the  animosity  shown  to  him  by  his  brother." 


CONTRASTS.  45^ 

"You  touch  upon  a  subject  that  is  never  breathed  between 
ns  ;  not  even  between  us,"  said  Harriet. 

"  I  beg  your  forgiveness,"  said  the  visitor.  "  I  should  have 
known  it.  1  entreat  you  to  forget  that  I  have  done  so,  inad 
vertently.  \nd  now.  as  I  dare  urge  no  more — as  I  am  not 
sure  that  I  have  a  right  to  do  so — though  Heaven  knows,  even 
that  doubt  may  be  habiL,''  said  the  gentleman,  rubbing  his 
head,  as  despondently  as  before.  '*  let  me  ;  though  a  stranger, 
yet  no  stranger  ;  ask  two  favors.'' 

"  What  are  they  ?  "  she  inquired. 

"The  first,  that  if  you  should  see  cause  to  change  your 
resolution,  you  will  suffer  me  to  be  as  your  righi  hand.  My 
name  shall  then  be  at  your  service ;  it  is  useless  now,  and  al- 
ways insignificant." 

"  Our  choice  of  friends,"  she  answered,  smiling  faintly,  "  is 
not  so  great,  that  I  need  any  time  for  consideration.  I  can 
promise  that." 

"The  second,  that  you  will  allow  me  sometimes,  say  every 
Monday  morning,  at  nine  o'clock — habit  again — I  must  be 
business-like,"  said  the  gentleman,  with  a  whimsical  inclination 
to  quarrel  with  himself  on  that  head,  "in  walking  past  to  see 
you  at  the  door  or  window.  I  don't  ask  to  come  in,  as  your 
brother  will  be  gone  out  at  that  hour,  I  don't  ask  to  speak  to 
you.  I  merely  ask  to  see,  for  the  satisfaction  of  my  own  mind, 
that  you  are  well,  and  without  intrusion  to  remind  you,  by  the 
sight  of  me,  that  you  have  a  friend — an  elderly  friend,  gray- 
haired  already,  and  fast  growing  grayer — whom  you  may  ever 
command." 

The  cordial  face  looked  up  in  his ;  confided  in  it ;  and 
promised. 

"  I  understand,  as  before,"  said  the  gentleman,  rising, 
"  that  you  purpose  not  to  mention  my  visit  to  John  Carker, 
lest  he  should  be  at  all  distressed  by  my  acquaintance  with  his 
history.  I  am  glad  of  it,  for  it  is  out  of  the  ordinary  course  of 
things,  and — habit  again  !  "  said  the  gentleman,  checking  him- 
self impatiently,  "  as  if  there  were  no  better  course  than  the 
ordinary  course  !  " 

With  that  he  turned  to  go,  and  walking,  bare-headed,  to  the 
outside  of  the  little  porch,  took  leave  of  her  with  such  a  happy 
mixture  of  unconstrained  respect  and  unaffected  interest,  as 
no  breeding  could  have  taught,  no  truth  mistrusted,  and 
nothing  but  a  pure  and  single  heart  expressed. 

Many  half-forgotten  emotions  were  awakened  in  the  sister's 
mind  by  this  visit     It  was  so  very  long  since  any  other  visitor 


460  DOMnEY  AND  son: 

had  crossed  their  threshold  ;  it  was  so  very  long  since  anj 
voice  of  sympathy  had  made  sad  music  in  her  ears ;  that  the 
stranger's  figure  remained  present  to  Iier,  hours  afterwards, 
when  she  sat  at  the  window,  plying  her  needle  ;  and  his  words 
seemed  newly  spoken,  again  and  again.  He  had  touched  the 
spring  that  opened  her  whole  life  ;  and  if  she  lost  him  for  a 
short  space,  it  was  only  among  the  many  shapes  of  the  one 
great  recollection  of  which  that  life  was  made. 

Musing  and  working  by  turns  ;  now  constraining  herself  to 
be  steady  at  her  needle  for  a  long  time  together,  and  now  let- 
ting her  work  fall,  unregarded,  on  her  lap,  and  straying  where- 
soever her  busier  thoughts  led,  Harriet  Carker  found  the  hours 
glide  by  her,  and  the  day  steal  on.  The  morning,  which  had 
been  bright  and  clear,  gradually  became  overcast ;  a  sharp 
wind  set  in  ;  the  rain  fell  heavily  ;  and  a  dark  mist  drooping 
over  the  distant  town,  hid  it  from  the  view. 

She  often  looked  with  compassion,  at  such  a  time,  upon  the 
stragglers  who  came  wandering  into  London,  by  the  great  high- 
way hard  by,  and  who,  footsore  and  weary,  and  gazing  fear- 
fully at  the  huge  town  before  them,  as  if  foreboding  that  their 
misery  there  would  be  but  as  a  drop  of  water  in  the  sea,  or  as 
a  grain  of  sea-sand  on  the  shore,  went  shrinking  on,  cowering 
before  the  angry  weather,  and  looking  as  if  the  very  elements 
rejected  them.  Day  after  day,  such  travellers  crept  past,  but 
always,  as  she  thought,  in  one  direction — always  towards  the 
town.  Swallowed  up  in  one  phase  or  other  of  its  immensity, 
towards  which  they  seemed  impelled  by  a  desperate  fascina- 
tion, they  never  returned.  Food  for  the  hospitals,  the  church- 
yards, the  prisons,  the  river,  fever,  madness,  vice,  and  death, 
—they  passed  on  to  the  monster,  roaring  in  the  distance,  and 
ivere  lost. 

The  chill  wind  was  howling,  and  the  rain  was  falling,  and 
ihe  day  was  darkening  moodily,  when  Harriet,  raising  her  eyes 
from  the  work  on  which  she  had  long  since  been  engaged  with 
unremitting  constancy,  saw  one  of  these  travellers  approaching. 

A  woman.  A  solitary  woman  of  some  thirty  years  of  age  ; 
tall;  well  formed  ;  handsome;  miserably  dressed  ;  the  soil  of 
many  country  roads  in  varied  weather — dust,  chalk,  clay,  gravel 
—clotted  on  her  gray  cloak  by  the  streaming  wet  ;  no  bonnet 
on  her  head,  nothing  to  defend  her  rich  black  hair  from  tne 
rain,  but  a  torn  handkerchief;  with  the  fluttering  ends  of 
which,  and  with  her  hair,  the  wmd  blinded  her  so  that  she 
often  stopped  to  push  them  back,  and  look  upon  the  way  sM 
was  going. 


CONTRASTS.  4b  I 

She  was  in  the  act  of  doing  so,  when  Harriet  observed  her. 
As  her  hands,  parting  on  her  sun-burnt  forehead,  swept  across 
her  face,  and  threw  aside  the  hindrances  that  encroached  upon 
it,  there  was  a  reckless  and  regardless  beauty  in  it :  a  dauntless 
and  depraved  indifference  to  more  than  weather  :  a  careless- 
ness, of  what  was  cast  upon  her  bare  head  from  Heaven  or 
earth  :  that,  coupled  with  her  misery  and  loneliness,  touched 
the  heart  of  her  fellow-woman.  She  thought  of  all  that  was 
perverted  and  debased  within  her,  no  less  than  without :  of 
modest  graces  of  the  mind,  hardened  and  steeled,  like  these 
attractions  of  the  person  :  of  the  many  gifts  of  the  Creator 
flung  to  the  winds  like  the  wild  hair  ;  of  all  the  beautiful  ruin 
upon  which  the  storm  was  beating  and  the  night  was  coming. 

Thinking  of  this,  she  did  not  turn  away  with  a  delicate  in- 
dignation— too  many  of  her  own  compassionate  and  tender  sex 
too  often  do — but  pitied  her. 

Her  fallen  sister  came  on,  looking  far  before  her,  trying 
with  her  eager  eyes  to  pierce  the  mist  in  which  the  city  was  en- 
shrouded, and  glancing,  now  and  then,  from  side  to  side,  with 
the  bewildered  and  uncertain  aspect  of  a  stranger.  Though 
her  tread  was  bold  and  courageous,  she  was  fatigued,  and  after 
a  moment  of  irresolution,  sat  down  upon  a  heap  of  stones  ; 
seeking  no  shelter  from  the  rain,  but  letting  it  rain  on  her  as  it 
would. 

She  was  now  opposite  the  house  ;  raising  her  head  after 
resting  it  for  a  moment  on  both  hands,  her  eyes  met  those  of 
Harriet. 

In  a  moment,  Harriet  was  at  the  door ;  and  the  other,  rising 
from  her  seat  at  her  beck,  came  slowly,  and  with  no  conciliatory 
look,  towards  her. 

"  Why  do  you  rest  in  the  rain  ?  "  said  Harriet,  gently. 

"  Because  I  have  no  other  resting-place,"  was  the  reply. 

"  But  there  are  many  places  of  shelter  near  here.     This," 
referring  to  the  little  porch,  "  is  better  than  where   you  were. 
You  are  very  welcome  to  rest  here." 

The  wanderer  looked  at  her,  in  doubt  and  surprise,  but 
without  any  expression  of  thankfulness  ;  and  sitting  down,  and 
taking  off  one  of  her  worn  shoes  to  beat  ou,":  the  fragments  of 
stone  and  dust  that  were  inside,  showed  that  her  foot  was  cut 
and  bleeding. 

Harriet  uttering  an  expression  of  pity,  the  traveller  looked 
up  with  a  contemptuous  and  incredulous  smile. 

"  Why,  what's  a  torn  foot  to  such  as  me  ?  "  she  said.  "  And 
what's  a  torn  foot  in  such  as  me,  to  such  as  you  ?  " 


462  DOMIU:  V  A. YD  SChV. 

*'  Come  in  and  wash  it,"  answered  Harriet,  mildly,  "  and 
let  me  give  you  something  to  bind  it  up," 

The  woman  caught  her  arm,  and  drawing  it  before  her  own 
eyes,  hid  them  against  it,  and  wept.  Not  Hke  a  woman,  but 
like  a  stern  man  surprised  into  that  weakness  :  with  a  violent 
heaving  of  her  breast,  and  struggle  for  recovery,  that  showed 
how  unusual  the  emotion  was  wi(h  her. 

She  submitted  to  be  led  into  the  house,  and,  evidently  more 
in  gratitude  than  in  any  care  for  herself,  washed  and  bound  the 
injured  place.  Harriet  then  put  before  her  fragments  of  her 
own  frugal  dinner,  and  when  she  had  eaten  of  them,  though 
sparingly,  besought  her,  before  resuming  her  road  (which  she 
showed  her  anxiety  to  do),  to  dry  her  clothes  before  the  fire. 
Again,  more  in  gratitude  than  with  any  evidence  of  concern  in 
her  own  behalf,  she  sat  down  in  front  of  it,  and  unbinding  the 
handerchief  about  her  head,  and  letting  her  thick  wet  hair  fall 
down  below  her  waist,  sat  drying  it  with  the  palms  of  her  hand. 
and  looking  at  the  blaze, 

"  I  dare  say  you  are  thinking,"  she  said,  lifting  her  head 
suddenly,  "  that  I  used  to  be  handsome,  once.  I  believe  I  was 
— I  know  I  was.     Look  here  !  " 

She  held  up  her  hair  roughly  with  both  hands;  seizing  it  as 
if  she  would  have  torn  it  out ;  then,  threw  it  down  again,  and 
flung  it  back  as  though  it  were  a  heap  of  serpents. 

"Are  you  a  stranger  in  this  place.?"  asked  Harriet, 

"  A  stranger  !  "  she  returned,  stooping  between  each  short 
reply,  and  looking  at  the  fire.  "  Yes.  Ten  or  a  dozen  years  a 
stranger.  I  have  had  no  almanac  where  I  have  been.  Ten  or 
a  dozen  years.  I  don't  know  this  part.  It's  much  altered  since 
I  went  away." 

"  Have  you  been  far  ?  " 

"  Very  far.  Months  upon  months  over  the  sea,  and  far  away 
even  then.  I  have  been  where  convicts  go,"  she  added,  looking 
full  upon  her  entertainer.     "  I  have  been  one  myself." 

"  Heaven  help  you  and  forgive  you  !  "  was  the  gentle 
answer. 

"  Ah  !  Heaven  help  me  and  forgive  me !  "  she  returned, 
nodding  her  head  at  the  fire.  "  If  man  would  help,  some  of  us 
a  little  more,  God  would  forgive  us  all  the  sooner  perhapsT" 

But  she  was  softened  by  the  earnest  manner,  andthe""cordial 
face  so  full  of  mildness  and  so  free  from  judgment,  of  her,  and 
said,  less  hardly  : 

"We  may  be  about  the  same  age,  you  and  me.  If  I  am 
older,  it  is  not  above  a  year  or  two.     Oh  think  of  that !  " 


AK'OIHER  MOTHER  AND  DAUGHJKk 


4t>3 


She  opened  her  arms,  as  though  the  exhibition  of  her  out- 
ward form  would  show  the  moral  wretch  she  was  ;  and  letting 
them  drop  at  her  sides,  hung  down  her  head. 

"  There  is  nothing  we  may  not  hope  to  repair  ;  it  is  never 
too  late  to  mend,"  said  Harriet.     "  You  are  penitent — " 

"  No,"  she  answered,  "  I  am  not  !  I  can't  be.  I  am  no 
8uch  thing.  Why  should  /  be  penitent,  and  all  the  world  go 
free.  They  talk  to  me  of  my  penitence.  Who's  penitent  for 
the  wrongs  that  have  been  done  to  me  !  " 

She  rose  up,  bound  her  handkerchief  about  her  head,  and 
turned  to  move  away. 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?"  said  Harriet. 

"  Yonder,"  she  answered,  pointing  with  her  hand.  "  To 
London." 

"  Have  you  any  home  to  go  to  ?  " 

'  I  think  I  have  a  mother.  She's  as  much  a  mother,  as  her 
dwelling  is  a  home,"  she  answered  with  a  bitter  laugh. 

"Take  this,"  cried  Harriet,  putting  money  in  her  hand, 
"  Try  to  do  well.  It  is  very  little,  but  for  one  day  it  may  keep 
you  from  harm." 

"  Are  you  married  ?  "  said  the  other  faintly,  as  she  took  it. 

"  No.  I  live  here  with  my  brother.  We  have  not  much  to 
spare,  or  I  would  give  you  more." 

"  Will  you  let  me  kiss  you  ? " 

Seeing  no  scorn  or  repugnance  in  her  face,  the  object  of  her 
charity  bent  over  her  as  she  asked  the  question,  and  pressed 
her  lips  against  her  cheek.  Once  moie  she  caught  her  arm,  and 
covered  her  eyes  with  it ;  and  then  was  gone. 

Gone  into  the  deepening  night,  and  howling  wind,  and  pelt- 
ing rain ;  urging  her  way  on  towards  the  mist-enshrouded  city 
where  the  blurred  lights  gleamed  ;  and  with  her  black  hair,  and 
disordered  head-gear,  fluttering  round  her  reckless  face. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

ANOTHER  MOTHER  AND  DAUGHTER. 

In  an  ugly  and  dark  room,  an  old  woman,  ugly  and  dark 
too,  sat  listening  to  the  wind  and  rain,  and  crouching  over  a 
aeagre  fire.     More  constant  to  the  last-named  occupation  thaa 


4^4  dombkv  and  soM. 

the  first,  she  never  changed  lier  altitude,  unless,  when  anystraj 
drops  of  rain  fell  hissing  on  the  smouldering  embers,  to  raise 
her  head  with  an  awakened  attention  to  the  whistling  and  pat- 
tering outside,  and  gradually  to  let  it  fall  again  lower  and  lower 
and  lower  as  she  sunk  into  a  brooding  state  of  thought,  in 
which  the  noises  of  the  night  were  as  indistinctly  regardea 
as  is  the  monotonous  rolling  of  a  sea  by  one  who  sits  in  con- 
templation on  its  shore. 

There  was  no  light  in  the  room  save  that  which  the  fire 
afforded.  Glaring  sullenly  from  time  to  time  like  the  eye  of  a 
fierce  beast  half  asleep,  it  revealed  no  objects  that  needed  to 
be  jealous  of  a  better  display.  A  heap  of  rags,  a  heap  of 
bones,  a  wretched  bed,  two  or  three  mutilated  chairs  or  stools, 
the  black  walls  and  blacker  ceiling,  were  all  its  winking  bright- 
ness shone  upon.  As  the  old  woman,  with  a  gigantic  and  dis- 
torted image  of  herself  thrown  half  upon  the  wall  behind  her, 
half  upon  the  roof  above,  sat  bending  over  the  few  loose  bricks 
within  which  it  was  pent,  on  the  damp  hearth  of  the  chimney — 
for  there  was  no  stove — she  looked  as  if  she  were  watching  at 
some  witch's  altar  for  a  favorable  token  ;  and  but  that  the 
movement  of  her  chattering  jaws  and  trembling  chin  was  loo 
frequent  and  too  fast  for  the  slow  flickering  of  the  fire,  it 
would  have  seemed  an  illusion  wrought  by  the  light,  as  it  came 
and  went,  upon  a  face  as  motionless  as  the  form  to  which  it 
belonged. 

If  Florence  could  have  stood  within  the  room  and  looked 
upon  the  original  of  the  shadow  thrown  upon  the  wall  and 
roof,  as  it  cowered  thus  over  the  fire,  a  glance  might  have 
sufficed  to  recall  the  figure  of  good  Mrs.  Brown  ;  notwithstand- 
ing that  her  childish  recollection  of  that  terrible  old  woman 
was  as  grotesque  and  exaggerated  a  presentiment  of  the  truth, 
perhaps,  as  the  shadow  on  the  wall.  But  Florence  was  not 
there  to  look  on  ;  and  good  Mrs.  Brown  remained  unrecognized, 
and  sat  staring  at  her  fire,  unobserved. 

Attracted  by  a  louder  ,'pjllering  tlian  usual,  as  the  rain 
came  hissing  down  the  chimney  in  a  little  stream,  the  old 
woman  raised  her  head,  impatiently,  to  listen  afresh.  And 
this  time  she  did  not  drop  it  again ;  for  there  was  a  hand  upon 
the  door,  and  a  footstep  in  ihe  room. 

"  Who's  that .!"'  she  said,  looking  over  her  shoulder. 

"  One  who  brings  you  news,"  was  the  answer,  in  a  woman's 
Toice. 

"  News  ?     Where  from  ?  " 

"  From  abroad." 


ANOTHER  MOTHER  AXD  DAUGHTER.  465 

"  From  beyond  the  seas  ?  "  cried  the  old  woman,  starting  up. 

*'  Ay,  from  beyond  the  seas." 

The  old  woman  raked  the  fire  together,  hurriedly,  and 
going  close  to  her  visitor  who  had  entered,  and  shut  the  door, 
and  who  now  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  put  her  hand 
upon  the  drenched  cloak,  and  turned  the  unresisting  figure,  so 
as  to  have  it  in  the  full  light  of  the  fire.  She  did  not  find  what 
she  had  expected,  whatever  that  might  be  ;  for  she  let  the 
cloak  go  again,  and  uttered  a  querulous  cry  of  disappointment 
and  misery. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ? "  asked  her  visitor. 

"  Oho  I  Oho  !  "  cried  the  old  woman,  turning  her  face  up- 
ward, with  a  terrible  howl. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?"  asked  the  visitor  again. 

"  It's  not  my  gal !  "  cried  the  old  woman,  tossing  up  her 
arms,  and  grasping  her  hands  above  her  head.  "  Where's  my 
Alice  !  Where's  my  handsome  daughter  !  They've  been  the 
death  of  her ! " 

"  They've  not  been  the  death  of  her  yet,  if  your  name's 
Marwood,"  said  the  visitor. 

"  Have  you  seen  my  gal,  then  ? "  cried  the  old  woman. 
*'  Has  she  wrote  to  me  .?  " 

"  She  said  you  couldn't  read,"  returned  the  other. 

"  No  more  I  can  !  "  exclaimed  the  old  woman,  wringing  her 
hands. 

"  Have  you  no  light  here  1 "  said  the  other,  looking  round 
the  room. 

The  old  woman,  mumbling  and  shaking  her  head,  and  mutter- 
ing to  herself  about  her  handsome  daughter,  brought  a  candle 
from  a  cupboard  in  the  corner,  and  thrusting  it  into  the  fire 
with  a  trembling  hand,  lighted  it  with  some  difficulty  and  set 
it  on  the  table.  Its  dirty  wick  burnt  dimly  at  first,  being 
choked  in  its  own  grease  ;  and  when  the  bleared  eyes  and  fail- 
ing sight  of  the  old  woman  could  distinguish  anything  by  its 
light,  her  visitor  was  sitting  with  her  arms  folded,  her  eyes 
turned  downwards,  and  a  handkerchief  she  had  worn  upon  her 
head  lying  on  the  table  by  her  side. 

"  She  sent  to  me  by  word  of  mouth  then,  my  gal,  Alice  ?  " 
mumbled  the  old  woman,  after  waiting  for  some  moments 
*'  Wliat  did  she  say  ?  " 

"  Look,"  returned  the  visitor. 

The  old  woman  repeated  the  word  in  a  scared  uncertain 
way  ;  and  shading  her  eyes,  looked  at  the  speaker,  round  the 
room,  and  at  the  speaker  once  again. 


^r/,  DOMBE\   AA^D  SON- 

"  Alice  said  look  again  mother ; "  and  the  speaker  fixed  hel 
eyes  upon  her. 

Again  the  old  woman  looked  round  the  room,  and  at  her 
visitor,  and  round  the  room  once  more.  Hastily  seizing  the 
candle,  and  rising  from  her  seat,  she  held  it  to  tlie  visitor's 
face,  uttered  a  loud  cry,  set  down  the  light,  and  fell  upon  her 
neck ! 

"  It's  my  gal !  It's  my  Alice  !  It's  my  handsome  daughter, 
living  and  come  back  !  "  screamed  the  old  woman,  rocking  her- 
self to  and  fro  upon  the  breast  that  coldly  suffered  her  embrace. 
"  It's  my  gal  !  It's  my  Alice  !  It's  my  handsome  daughter, 
living  and  come  back  !  "  she  screamed  again,  dropping  on  the 
floor  before  her,  cbsping  her  knees,  laying  her  head  against 
them,  and  still  rocking  herself  to  and  fro  with  every  frantic 
demonstration  of  which  her  vitality  was  capable. 

"  Yes,  mother,"  returned  Alice,  stooping  forward  for  a 
moment  and  kissing  her,  but  endeavoring,  even  in  the  act,  to 
disengage  herself  from  her  embrace.  "  I  am  here,  at  last. 
Let  go,  mother  ;  let  go.  Get  up,  and  sit  in  your  chair.  What 
good  does  this  do  ?  " 

"  She's  come  back  harder  than  she  went ! "  cried  the 
mother,  looking  up  in  her  face,  and  still  holding  to  her  knees. 
"She  don't  care  for  me!  after  all  these  years,  and  all  the 
wretched  life  I've  led  !  " 

"  Why,  mother  !  "  said  Alice,  shaking  her  ragged  skirts  to 
detach  the  old  woman  from  them  :  "  there  are  two  sides  to  that. 
There  have  been  years  for  me  as  well  as  you,  and  there  ha^; 
been  wretchedness  for  me  as  well  as  you.     Get  up,  get  up !  " 

Her  mother  rose,  and  cried,  and  wrung  her  hands,  and 
stood  at  a  little  distance  gazing  on  her.  Then  she  took  the 
candle  again,  and  going  round  her,  surveyed  her  from  head  to 
foot,  making  a  low  moaning  all  the  time.  Then  she  put  the 
candle  down,  resumed  her  chair,  and  beating  her  hands  to- 
gether to  a  kind  of  weary  tune,  and  rolling  herself  from  side  to 
side,  continued  moaning  and  wailing  to  herself. 

Alice  got  up,  took  olT  her  wet  cloak,  and  laid  it  aside.  That 
done,  she  sat  down  as  before,  and  with  her  arms  folded,  and 
her  eyes  gazing  at  the  fire,  remained  silently  listening  with  a 
contemptuous  face  to  her  old  mother's  inarticulate  complaii> 
ings. 

"  Did  you  expect  to  see  me  return  as  youthful  as  I  went 
away,  mother?"  she  said  at  length,  turning  her  eyes  upon  the 
old  woman.  "  Did  you  think  a  foreign  life,  like  mine,  was  good 
for  good  looks  ?     One  would  believe  so,  to  hear  you  I  '* 


ANOTHER  MOTHER  AND  DAUGHTER.  467 

"  It  an't  that !  "  cried  the  mother.     "  She  knows  it  !  " 

"  What  is  it  then  ?  "  returned  the  daughter.  "  It  had  best 
be  something  that  don't  last,  mother,  or  my  way  out  is  easier 
than  my  way  in," 

"Hear  that!"  exclaimed  the  mother.  "After  all  these 
years  she  threatens  to  desert  me  in  the  moment  of  her  coming 
back  again ! " 

"  I  tell  you,  mother,  for  the  second  time,  there  have  been 
years  for  me  as  well  as  you,"  said  Alice.  "  Come  back  harder  > 
Of  course  I  have  come  back  harder.  What  else  did  you  ex- 
pect ? " 

"  Harder  to  me  !  To  her  own  dear  mother  !  "  cried  the  old 
woman. 

"  I  don't  know  who  began  to  harden  me,  if  my  own  dear 
mother  didn't,"  she  returned,  sitting  with  her  folded  arms,  and 
knitted  brows,  and  compressed  lips,  as  if  she  were  bent  on  ex- 
cluding, by  force,  every  softer  feeling  from  her  breast.  "  Listen, 
mother,  to  a  word  or  two.  If  we  understand  each  other  now, 
we  shall  not  fall  out  any  more,  perhaps.  I  went  away  a  girl, 
and  have  come  back  a  woman.  I  went  away  undutiful  enough, 
and  have  come  back  no  better,  you  may  swear.  But  have  you 
been  very  dutiful  to  me  ?  " 

"  I  !  "  cried  the  old  woman.  "  To  my  own  gal !  A  mother 
dutiful  to  her  own  child  !  " 

"  It  sounds  unnatural,  don't  it  ?  "  returned  the  daughter, 
looking  coldly  on  her  with  her  stern,  regardless,  hardy,  beau- 
tiful face  ;  "  but  I  have  thought  of  it  sometimes,  in  the  course 
of  wv  lone  years,  till  I  have  got  used  to  it.  I  have  heard 
some  talk  about  duty  first  and  last;  but  it  has  always  been  of 
my  duty  to  other  people.  I  have  wondered  now  and  then — 
to  pass  away  the  time — whether  no  one  ever  owed  any  duty  to 
me." 

Her  mother  sat  mowing,  and  mumbling,  and  shaking  her 
head,  but  whether  angrily,  or  remorsefully,  or  in  denial,  or  only 
in  her  physical  infirmity,  did  not  appear, 

"  There  was  a  child  called  Alice  Marwood,"  said  the  daugh- 
ter, with  a  laugh,  and  looking  down  at  herself  in  terrible  deri- 
sion of  herself,  "  born,  among  poverty  and  neglect,  and  nursed 
in  it.  Nobody  taught  her,  nobody  stepped  forward  to  help 
her,  nobody  cared  for  her." 

"  Nobody  ! "  echoed  the  mother,  pointing  to  herself,  and 
striking  her  breast. 

"  The  only  care  she  knew,"  returned  the  daughter,  "  was  to 
be  beaten,  and  stinted,  and  abused  sometimes  ;  and  she  might 


^68  DOMBEY  AXD  SOI^. 

have  done  better  without  that.  She  lived  in  homes  like  thi^ 
and  in  the  streets,  with  a  crowd  of  little  wretches  like  herself  j 
and  yet  she  brought  good  looks  out  of  this  childhood.  So 
much  the  worse  for  her.  She  had  better  have  been  hunted 
and  worried  to  death  for  ugliness." 

"  Go  on  !  go  on  !  "  exclaimed  the  mother. 

"I  am  going  on,"  returned  the  daughter.  "There  was  a 
girl  called  Alice  Marwood.  She  was  handsome.  She  was 
taught  too  late,  and  taught  all  wrong.  She  was  too  well  cared 
for,  too  well  trained,  too  well  helped  on,  too  much  looked 
after.  You  were  very  fond  of  her — you  were  better  off  then. 
What  came  to  that  girl  comes  to  thousands  every  year. — It  was 
only  ruin,  and  she  was  born  to  it." 

"After  all  these  years  !  "  whined  the  old  woman.  "  My  gal 
begins  with  this." 

"  She'll  soon  have  ended,"  said  the  daughter.  "  There  was 
a  criminal  called  Alice  Marwood — a  girl  still,  but  deserted  and 
an  outcast.  And  she  was  tried,  and  she  was  sentenced.  And 
lord,  how  the  gentlemen  in  the  court  talked  about  it  1  and  how 
grave  the  judge  was  on  her  duty,  and  on  her  having  perverted 
the  gifts  of  nature — as  if  he  didn't  know  better  than  anybody 
there,  that  they  had  been  made  curses  to  her ! — and  how  he 
preached  about  the  strong  arm  of  the  Law — so  very  strong  to 
save  her,  when  she  was  an  innocent  and  helpless  little  wretch ; 
and  how  solemn  and  religious  it  all  was.  I  have  thought  of 
ihat,  many  times  since,  to  be  sure  1 " 

She  folded  her  arms  tightly  on  her  breast,  and  laughed  in  a 
tone  that  made  the  howl  of  the  old  woman  musical. 

"  So  Alice  Marwood  was  transported,  mother,"  she  pursued, 
*'  and  was  sent  to  learn  her  duty,  where  there  was  twenty  times 
jfess  duty,  and  more  wickedness,  and  wrong,  and  infamy,  than 
here.  And  Alice  Marwood  is  come  back  a  woman.  Such  a 
•woman  as  she  ought  to  be,  after  all  this.  In  good  time,  there 
will  be  more  solemnity,  and  more  fine  talk,  and  more  strong 
arm,  most  likely,  and  there  will  be  an  end  of  her;  but  the  gen- 
tlemen needn't  be  afraid  of  being  thrown  out  of  work.  ^  There's 
crowds  of  little  wretches,  boy  and  girl,  growing  up  in  any  of 
the  streets  they  live  in,  that'll  keep  them  to  it  till  they've  made 
their  fortunes." 

The  old  woman  leaned  her  elbows  on  the  table,  and  resting 
her  face  upon  her  two  hands,  made  a  show  of  being  in  great 
distress — or  really  was,  perhaps. 

"  There  !  I  have  done,  mother,"  said  the  daughter,  with  a 
motion  of  her  head,  as  if  in  dismissal  of  the  subject.     *'I  have 


ANOTHER  MOTJ/liR  AND  DAVCHTER  ^g* 

Said  enough.  Don't  let  you  and  I  talk  of  being  dutiful,  what- 
ever we  do.  Your  childhood  was  like  mine,  1  suppose.  So 
much  the  worse  for  both  of  us.  I  don't  want  to  blame  you,  or 
to  defend  myself ;  why  should  I .''  That's  all  over  long  ago. 
But  I  am  a  woman — not  a  girl,  now — and  you  and  I  needn't 
make  a  show  of  our  history,  like  the  gentlemen  in  the  Court. 
We  know  all  about  it  well  enough." 

Lost  and  degraded  as  she  was,  there  was  a  beauty  ki  her, 
both  of  face  and  form,  which,  even  in  its  worst  expressioH^ 
could  not  but  be  recognized  as  such  by  any  one  regarding  her 
with  the  least  attention.  As  she  subsided  into  silence,  and  her 
face,  which  had  been  harshly  agitated,  quieted  down  ;  while  her 
dark  eyes,  fixed  upon  the  fire,  exchanged  the  reckless  light 
that  had  animated  them,  for  one  that  was  softened  by  some- 
thing like  sorrow ;  there  shone  through  all  her  wayworn  mis- 
ery and  fatigue,  a  ray  of  the  departed  radiance  of  the  fallen 
angel. 

Her  mother,  after  watching  her  for  some  time  without 
speaking,  ventured  to  steal  her  withered  hand  a  little  nearer  to 
her  across  the  table ;  and  finding  that  she  permitted  this,  to 
touch  her  face  and  smooth  her  hair.  With  the  feeling,  as  it 
seemed,  that  the  old  woman  was  at  least  sincere  in  this  show 
of  interest,  Alice  made  no  movement  to  check  her;  so,  advanc- 
ing by  degrees,  slie  bound  up  her  daughter's  hair  afresh,  took 
off  her  wet  shoes,  if  they  deserved  the  name,  spread  some- 
thing dry  upon  her  shoulders,  and  hovered  humbly  about  her, 
muttering  to  herself,  as  she  recognized  her  old  features  and  ex- 
pression more  and  more. 

"  You  are  very  poor,  mother,  I  see,"  said  Alice,  looking 
round,  when  she  had  sat  thus  for  some  time. 

"  Bitter  poor,  my  deary,"  replied  the  old  woman. 

She  admired  her  daughter,  and  was  afraid  of  her.  Perhaps 
her  admiration,  such  as  it  was,  had  originated  long  ago,  when 
she  first  found  anything  that  was  beautiful  appearing  in  the 
midst  of  the  squalid  figure  of  her  existence.  Perhaps  her  fear 
was  referable,  in  some  sort,  to  the  retrospect  she  had  so  lately 
heard.  Be  this  as  it  might,  she  stood,  submissively  and  def' 
erentially,  before  her  child,  and  inclined  her  head,  as  if  in  4 
pitiful  entreaty  to  be  spared  any  further  reproach. 

"  How  have  you  lived  ?  " 

"  By  begging,  my  deary." 

"And  pilfering,  mother?  " 

"  Sometimes,  Ally — in  a  very  small  way.  I  am  old  and 
timid.     I  have  taken  trifles  from  children  now  and  then,  my 


^76  DOMBEY  AND  SOS\ 

deary,  but  not  often.  I  have  tramped  about  the  country,  pet 
and  I  know  what  1  know.     I  have  watched." 

"  Watched  ?  "  returned  the  daughter,  looking  at  her. 

"  I  have  hung  about  a  family,  my  deary,"  said  the  mother, 
even  more  humbly  and  submissively  than  before. 

"  What  family  .>  " 

"  Hush,  darling.  Don't  be  angry  with  me,  I  did  it  for  the 
love  of  you.  In  memory  of  my  poor  gal  beyond  seas."  She 
put  out  her  hand  deprecatingly,  and  drawing  it  back  again, 
laid  it  on  her  lips. 

"Years  ago,  my  dearie,"  she  pursued,  glancing  timidly  at 
the  attentive  and  stern  face  opposed  to  her.  "  I  came  across 
his  little  child,  by  chance  .''  " 

"  Whose  child  ?  " 

"  Not  his,  Alice  deary ;  don't  look  at  me  like  that ;  not  his. 
How  could  it  be  his  ?  you  know  he  has  none." 

"  Whose  then  ?  "  returned  the  daughter.     "  You  said  his." 

"  Hush,  Ally  ;  you  frighten  me,  deary.  Mr.  Dombey's — • 
only  Mr.  Dombey's.  Since  then,  darling,  I  have  seen  them 
cften.     I  have  seen  ///w." 

In  uttering  this  last  word,  the  old  woman  shrunk  and  re- 
coiled, as  if  with  a  sudden  fear  that  her  daughter  would  strike 
her.  But  though  the  daughter's  face  was  fixed  upon  her,  and 
expressed  the  most  vehement  passion,  she  remained  still  :  ex- 
cept that  she  clenched  her  arms  tighter  and  tighter  within  each 
other,  on  her  bosom,  as  if  to  restrain  them  by  that  means  from 
doing  an  injury  to  herself,  or  some  one  else,  in  the  blind  fury 
of  the  wrath  that  suddenly  possessed  her. 

"Little  he  thought  who  I  was  !  "  said  the  old  woman,  shak- 
ing her  clenched  hand. 

"  And  little  he  cared  !  "  muttered  her  daughter,  between  her 
teeth. 

"  But  there  we  were,"  said  the  old  woman,  "  face  to  face. 
I  spoke  to  him,  and  he  spoke  to  me.  I  sat  and  watched  him  as 
he  went  away  down  a  long  grove  of  trees ;  and  at  every  step  he 
took,  I  cursed  him  soul  and  body." 

"  He  will  thrive  in  spite  of  that,"  returned  the  daughter  dis- 
dainfully. 

'*  Ay,  he  is  thriving,"  said  the  mother. 

She  held  her  peace  ;  for  the  face  and  form  before  her  were 
unshapedby  rage.  It  seemed  as  if  the  bosom  would  burst  with 
the  emotions  that  strove  within  it.  The  effort  that  constrained 
and  held  it  pent  up,  was  no  less  formidable  than  the  rage  itself  : 
no  less  bespeaking  the  violent  and  dangerous  character  of  th© 


ANOTHER  MOTHER  AND  DAUGHTER.  471 

woman  who  made  it.     But  it  succeeded,  and  she  asked  after  a 
silence  : 

"  Is  he  married  ? " 

"  No,  deary,"  said  the  mother, 

"  Going  to  be  ?  " 

"  Not  that  I  know  of,  deary.  But  his  master  and  friend  is 
married.  Oh,  we  may  give  him  joy  !  We  may  give  'em  all  joy  !  " 
cried  the  old  woman,  hugging  herself  with  her  lean  arms  in  her 
exultation.  "  Nothing  but  joy  to  us  will  come  of  that  marriage. 
Mind  me  ! " 

The  daughter  looked  at  her  for  an  explanation. 

"  But  you  are  wet  and  tired  :  hungry  and  thirsty,"  said  the 
old  woman,  hobbling  to  the  cupboard  ;  "  and  there's  little  here, 
and  little — "  diving  down  into  her  pocket  and  jingling  a  few 
halfpence  on  the  table — "  little  here.  Have  you  any  money. 
Alice,  deary  ? " 

The  covetous,  sharp,  eager  face  with  which  she  asked  the 
question  and  looked  on,  as  her  daughter  took  out  of  her  bosom 
the  little  gift  she  so  lately  received,  told  almost  as  much  of 
the  history  of  this  parent  and  child  as  the  child  herself  had  told  ^ 
in  words. 

"  Is  that  all  ?  "  said  the  mother. 

*'  I  have  no  more.     I  should  not  have  this,  but  for  charity." 

"  But  for  charity,  eh,  deary  >.  "  said  the  old  woman,  bending 
greedily  over  the  table  to  look  at  the  money,  which  she  appeared 
distrustful  of  her  daughter's  still  retaining  in  her  hand,  and 
gazing  on.  "  Humph  !  six  and  six  is  twelve  and  six  eighteen — 
so — we  must  make  the  most  of  it.  I'll  go  buy  something  to  eat 
and  drink.' 

With  greater  alacrity  than  might  have  been  expected  in  one  of 
her  appearance — for  age  and  misery  seemed  to  have  made  her 
as  decrepit  as  ugly — she  began  to  occupy  her  trembling  hands 
in  tying  an  old  bonnet  on  her  head,  and  folding  a  torn  shawl 
about  herself  :  still  eyeing  the  money  in  her  daughter's  hand 
with  the  same  sharp  desire. 

"  What  joy  is  to  come  to  us  of  this  marriage,  mother  ? " 
asked  the  daughter.     "  You  have  not  told  me  that." 

"  The  joy,"  she  replied,  attiring  herself,  with  fumbling  fingers, 
**  of  no  love  at  all,  and  much  pride  and  hate,  my  deary.  The 
joy  of  confusion  and  strife  among  'em,  proud  as  they  are,  and  of 
danger — danger,  Alice  !  " 

"  What  danger  ?  " 

"  /have  seen  what  I  have  seen,  /know  what  I  know  !  " 
chuckled  the  mother.  "  Let  some  look  to  it.  Let  some  be 
upon  their  guard.     My  gal  may  keep  good  company  yet  I  " 


472 


DOMnEY  AND  SON. 


Then,  seeing  that  in  the  wondering  earnestness  with  which 
her  daughter  regarded  her,  her  hand  involuntarily  closed  upon 
the  money,  the  old  woman  made  more  speed  to  secure  it,  and 
hurriedly  added,  "  but  I'll  go  buy  something  ;  I'll  go  buy  some- 
thing." 

As  she  stood  with  her  hand  stretched  out  before  her  daughter, 
her  daughter  glancing  again  at  the  money,  put  it  to  her  lips  be- 
fore parting  with  it. 

What,  Ally!  Do  you  kiss  it?"  chuckled  the  old  woman. 
"  That's  like  me — I  often  do.  Oh,  it's  so  good  to  us  !  ''  squeez- 
ing her  own  tarnished  halfpence  up  to  her  bag  of  a  throat,  "  so 
good  to  us  in  everything  but  not  coming  in  heaps  !  " 

"  I  kiss  it,  mother,"  said  the  daughter,  "  or  I  did  then — I 
don't  know  that  I  ever  did  before — for  the  giver's  sake." 

"  The  giver,  eh,  deary  ?  "  retorted  the  old  woman,  whose 
dimmed  eyes  glistened  as  she  took  it.  "  Ay  !  I'll  kiss  it  for  the 
giver's  sake,  too,  when  the  giver  can  make  it  go  farther.  But 
I'll  go  spend  it,  deary.     I'll  be  back  directly." 

"  You  seem  to  say  you  know  a  great  deal,  mother,"  said 
the  daughter,  following  her  to  the  door  with  her  eyes.  "  You 
have  grown  very  wise  since  we  parted." 

"  Know  !  "  croaked  the  old  woman,  coming  back  a  step  or 
two,  "  I  know  more  than  you  think.  I  know  more  than  he 
thinks,  deary,  as  I'll  tell  you  by  and  by.  I  know  all  about 
him." 

The  daughter  smiled  incredulously. 

"  I  know  of  his  brother,  Alice,"  said  the  old  woman,  stretch- 
ing out  her  neck  with  a  leer  of  malice  absolutely  frightful,  "  who 
might  have  been  where  you  have  been — for  stealing  money — • 
and  who  lives  with  his  sister,  over  yonder,  by  the  north  road  out 
of  London." 

"  Where  ?  " 

"  By  the  north  road  out  of  London,  deary.  You  shall  see 
the  house  if  you  like.  It  an't  much  to  boast  of,  genteel  as  his 
own  is.  No,  no,  no,"  cried  the  old  woman,  shaking  her  head 
and  laughing ;  for  her  daughter  had  started  up,  "  not  now  ;  it's 
too  far  off  ;  it's  by  the  milestone,  where  the  stones  are  heaped ; 
— to-morrow,  deary,  if  it's  fine,  and  you  are  in  the  humor.  But 
I'll  go  spend — " 

"  Stop  !  "  and  the  daughter  flung  herself  upon  her  with  her 
former  passion  raging  like  a  fire.  "  The  sister  is  a  fair-faced 
Devil,  with  brown  hair  ?  " 

The  old  woman,  amazed  and  terrified,  nodded  her  head, 

**I  .■>€?  th?  shadow  of  him  in  her  fage  !     It's  a  red  JiQU?? 


ANOTiJEk  MOfHRR  AND  DAUGHTER.  473 

Standing  by  itself.  Before  the  door  there  is  a  small  green 
porch." 

Again  the  old  woman  nodded. 

"  In  which  I  sat  to-day  !     Give  me  back  the  money." 

"  Alice  !     Deary  !  " 

"  Give  me  back  the  money,  or  you'll  be  hurt." 

She  forced  it  from  the  old  woman's  hand  as  she  spoke,  and 
utterly  indifferent  to  her  complainings  and  entreaties,  threw  on 
the  garments  she  had  taken  off,  and  hurried  out,  with  headlong 
speed. 

The  mother  followed,  limping  after  her  as  she  could,  and 
expostulating  with  no  more  effect  upon  her  than  upon  the  wind 
and  rain  and  darkness  that  encompassed  them.  Obdurate  and 
fierce  in  her  own  purpose,  and  indifferent  to  all  besides,  the 
daughter  defied  the  weather  and  the  distance,  as  if  she  had 
known  no  travel  or  fatigue,  and  made  for  the  house  where  she 
had  been  relieved.  After  some  quarter  of  an  hour's  walking, 
the  old  woman,  spent  and  out  of  breath,  ventured  to  hold  by  her 
skirts ;  but  she  ventured  no  more,  and  they  travelled  on  in 
silence  through  the  wet  and  gloom.  If  the  mother  now  and 
then  uttered  a  word  of  complaint,  she  stifled  it  lest  her  daughter 
should  break  away  from  her  and  leave  her  behind  ;  and  the 
daughter  was  dumb. 

It  was  within  an  hour  or  so  of  midnight,  when  they  left  the 
regular  streets  behind  them,  and  entered  on  the  deeper  gloom 
of  that  neutral  ground  where  the  house  was  situated.  The  town 
lay  in  the  distance,  lurid  and  lowering ;  the  bleak  wind 
howled  over  the  open  space  ;  all  around  was  black,  wild,  deso- 
late. 

"  This  is  a  fit  place  for  me  !  "  said  the  daughter,  stopping  to 
look  back.     "  I  thought  so,  when  I  was  here  before  to-day." 

"Alice,  my  deary,"  cried  the  mother,  pulling  her  gently  by 
the  skirt.     "  Alice  !  " 

"  What  now,  mother  ?  " 

"  Don't  give  the  money  back,  my  darling ;  please  don't. 
We  can't  afford  it.  We  want  supper,  deary.  Money  is  money, 
whoever  gives  it.     Say  what  you  will,  but  keep  the  money." 

"  See  there  !  "  was  all  the  daughter's  answer.  "That  is  the 
house  I  mean.     Is  that  it  t  " 

The  old  woman  nodded  in  the  affirmative ;  and  a  few  more 
paces  brought  them  to  the  threshold.  There  was  the  light  of 
fire  and  candle  in  the  room  where  Alice  had  sat  to  dry  her 
clothes  ;  and  on  her  knocking  at  the  door,  John  Carker  appeared 
from  that  room. 


47  4  DOM  BE  V  AMt>  so^r. 

lie  was  surprised  to  see  such  visitors  at  such  an  hour,  and 
asked  Alice  what  she  wanted. 

"  I  want  your  sister,"  she  said.  "The  woman  who  gave  me 
money  to-day." 

At  the  sound  of  her  raised  voice,  Harriet  came  out. 

"  Oh  !  "  said  AUce.  "  You  are  here  1  Do  you  remember 
me  ? " 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  wondering. 

The  face  that  had  humbled  itself  before  her,  looked  on  her 
now  with  such  invincible  hatred  and  defiance  ;  and  the  hand 
that  had  gently  touched  her  arm,  was  clenched  with  such  a  sho\r 
of  evil  purpose,  as  if  it  would  gladly  strangle  her;  that  she  drew 
close  to  her  brother  for  protection. 

"That  I  could  speak  with  you,  and  not  know  you !  That  I 
could  come  near  you,  and  not  feel  what  blood  was  running  in 
your  veins,  by  the  tingling  of  my  own  !  "  said  Alice,  with  a 
menacing  gesture. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?     What  have  I  done  ? " 

"  Done  !  "  returned  the  other.  "  You  have  sat  me  by  your 
fire  ;  you  have  given  me  food  and  money ;  you  have  bestowed 
your  compassion  on  me  !     You  !  whose  name  I  spit  upon  !  " 

The  old  woman,  with  a  malevolence  that  made  her  ugliness 
quite  awful,  shook  her  withered  hand  at  the  brother  and  sister 
in  confirmation  of  her  daughter,  but  plucked  her  by  the  skirts 
again,  nevertheless,  imploring  her  to  keep  the  money. 

"  If  I  dropped  a  tear  upon  your  hand,  may  it  wither  it  up  \ 
If  I  spoke  a  gentle  word  in  your  hearing,  may  it  deafen  you  !  If 
I  touched  you  with  my  lips,  may  the  touch  be  poison  to  you  ! 
A  curse  upon  this  roof  that  gave  me  shelter !  Sorrow  and  shame 
upon  your  head  !     Ruin  upon  all  belonging  to  you  !  " 

As  she  said  the  words,  she  threw  the  money  down  upon  the 
ground,  and  spurned  it  with  her  foot. 

"  I  tread  it  in  the  dust :  I  wouldn't  take  it  if  it  paved  my 
way  to  Heaven  !  I  would  the  bleeding  foot  that  brought  me  here 
to-day,  had  rotted  ofif,  before  it  led  me  to  your  house  !  " 

Harriet,  pale  and  trembling,  restrained  her  brother,  and 
suffered  her  to  go  on  uninterrupted. 

"  It  was  well  that  I  should  be  pitied  and  forgiven  by  you,  or 
any  one  of  your  name,  in  the  first  hour  of  my  return  !  It  was 
well  that  you  should  act  the  kind  good  lady  to  me  !  I'll  thank 
you  when  I  die ;  I'll  pray  for  you,  and  all  your  race,  you  may 
be  sure ! " 

With  a  fierce  action  of  her  hand,  as  if  she  sprinkled  hatred 
pn  the  ground,  and  with  it  devoted  those  who  were  standing 


The  HAl^PY  PA  Ik. 


Ml 


there  to  destruction,  she  looked  up  once  at  the  black  sky,  and 
strode  out  into  the  wild  night. 

The  mother,  who  had  plucked  at  her  skirts  again  and  again 
in  vain,  and  had  eyed  the  money  lying  on  the  threshold  with  an 
absorbing  greed  that  seemed  to  concentrate  her  faculties  upon 
it,  would  have  prowled  about,  until  the  house  was  dark,  and 
then  groped  in  the  mire  on  the  chance  of  repossessing  herself  of 
it.  But  the  daughter  drew  her  away,  and  they  set  forth,  straight, 
on  their  return  to  their  dwelling ;  the  old  woman  whimpering 
and  bemoaning  their  loss  upon  the  road,  and  fretfully  bewailing, 
as  openly  as  she  dared,  the  undutiful  conduct  of  her  handsome 
girl  in  depriving  her  of  a  supper,  on  the  very  first  night  of  their 
re-union. 

Supperless  to  bed  she  went,  saving  for  a  few  coarse  frag- 
ments ;  and  those  she  sat  mumbling  and  munching  over  a  scrap 
of  fire,  long  after  her  undutiful  daughter  lay  asleep. 

Were  this  miserable  mother,  and  this  miserable  daughter, 
only  the  reduction  to  their  lowest  grade,  of  certain  social  vices 
sometimes  prevailing  higher  up  'i  In  this  round  world  of  many 
circles  within  circles,  do  we  make  a  weary  journey  from  the 
high  grade  to  the  low,  to  find  at  last  that  they  lie  close  together, 
that  the  two  extremes  touch,  and  that  our  journey's  end  is  but 
our  starting-place  ?  Allowing  for  great  difference  of  stuff  and 
texture,  was  the  pattern  of  this  woof  repeated  among  gentle 
blood  at  all  ? 

Say,  Edith  Dombey !  And  Cleopatra,  best  of  mothers,  kt 
us  have  your  testimony ! 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

THE    HAPPY   PAIR. 


The  dark  blot  on  the  street  is  gone.  Mr.  Dombey's  man- 
sion, if  it  be  a  gap  among  the  other  houses  any  longer,  is  only 
so  because  it  is  not  to  be  vied  with  in  its  brightness,  and 
haughtily  casts  them  off.  The  saying  is,  that  home  is  home,  be 
it  never  so  homely.  If  it  hold  good  in  the  opposite  contingency, 
and  home  is  home  be  it  never  so  stately,  what  an  altar  to  the 
Household  Gods  is  raised  up  here  ! 

Lights  are  sparkling  in  the  windows  this  evening,  and  the 


47^  DOMBEV  AND  SO.V. 

riddy  ;^lo\v  of  fires  is  warm  and  bright  upon  the  hangings  and 
soft  v^arpets,  and  the  dinner  waits  to  he  served,  and  the  dinner 
table  is  handsomely  set  forth,  thougli  only  for  four  persons,  and 
the  sideboard  is  cumbrous  with  plate.  It  is  the  first  time  that 
the  house  has  been  arranged  for  occupation  since  its  late 
changes,  and  the  happy  pair  are  looked  for  every  minute. 

Only  second  to  the  wedding  morning,  in  the  interest  and 
expectation  it  engenders  among  the  household,  is  this  evening 
of  the  coming  home.  Mrs.  Perch  is  in  the  kitchen  taking  tea , 
and  has  made  the  tour  of  the  establishment,  and  priced  the  silks 
and  damasks  by  the  yard,  and  exhausted  every  interjection  in 
the  dictionary  and  out  of  it  expressive  of  admiration  and  won- 
der. The  upholsterer's  foreman,  who  has  left  his  hat,  with  a 
pocket-handkerchief  in  it,  both  smelling  strongly  of  varnish, 
under  a  chair  in  the  hall,  lurks  about  the  house,  gazing  upwards 
at  the  cornices,  and  downward  at  the  carpets,  and  occasionally 
in  a  silent  transport  of  enjoyment,  taking  a  rule  out  of  his 
pocket,  and  skirmishingly  measuring  expensive  objects,  with 
unutterable  feelings.  Cook  is  in  high  spirits,  and  says  givt/tef 
a  place  where  there's  plenty  of  company  (as  she'll  bet  you  six- 
pence there  will  be  now),  for  she  is  of  a  lively  disposition,  and 
she  always  was  from  a  child,  and  she  don't  mind  who  knows  it, 
which  sentiment  elicits  from  the  breast  of  Mrs.  Perch,  a  re- 
sponsive murmur  of  support  and  approbation.  All  the  house- 
maid hopes  is,  happiness  for  'em — but  marriage  is  a  lottery,  and 
the  more  she  thinks  about  it,  the  more  she  feels  the  indepen- 
dence and  the  safety  of  a  single  life.  Mr.  Towlinson  is  saturnine 
and  grim,  and  says  that's  his  opinion  too,  and  give  him  War 
besides,  and  down  with  the  French — for  this  young  man  has  a 
general  impression  that  every  foreigner  is  a  Frenchman,  and 
must  be  by  the  laws  of  nature. 

At  each  new  sound  of  wheels,  they  all  stop,  whatever  they 
are  saying,  and  listen;  and  more  than  once  there  is  a  general 
starting  up  and  a  cry  of  "  Here  they  are  !  "  But  here  they  are 
not  yet ;  and  Cook  begins  to  mourn  over  the  dinner,  which  has 
been  put  back  twice,  and  the  upholsterer's  foreman  still  goes 
lurking  about  the  rooms,  undisturbed  in  his  blissful  reverie  ! 

Florence  is  ready  to  receive  her  father  and  her  new  mama. 
Whether  the  emotions  that  are  throbbing  in  her  breast  originate 
in  pleasure  or  in  pain,  she  hardly  knows.  But  the  fluttering 
heart  sends  added  color  to  her  cheeks,  and  brightness  to  her 
eyes;  and  they  say  down  stairs,  drawing  their  heads  together 
— for  they  always  speak  softly  when  they  speak  of  hex — how 
beautiful  Miss  Florence  looks  to-night,  and  what  a  sweet  young 


THE  HAPFY  PAIR.  477 

lady  she  has  grown,  poor  dear  !  A  pause  succeeds  ;  and  then 
Cook,  feeling,  as  president,  that  her  sentiments  are  waited  for, 
wonders  whether — and  there  stops.  The  housemaid  wonders 
too,  and  so  does  Mrs,  Perch,  who  has  the  happy  social  faculty 
of  always  wondering  when  other  people  wonder,  without  being 
at  all  particular  what  she  wonders  at.  Mr.  Towlinson,  who 
now  descries  an  opportunity  of  bringing  down  the  spirits  of  the 
ladies  to  his  own  level,  says  wait  and  see  ;  he  wishes  some 
people  were  well  out  of  this.  Cook  leads  a  sigh  then,  and  a 
murmur  of  "  Ah  it's  a  strange  world,  it  is  indeed  !  "  and  when 
it  has  gone  round  the  table,  adds  persuasively,  "but  Miss  Flor- 
ence can't  well  be  the  worse  for  any  change,  Tom."  Mr. 
Towlinson's  rejoinder,  pregnant  with  frightful  meaning,  is  "  Oh, 
can't  she  though  !  "  and  sensible  that  a  mere  man  can  scarcely 
be  more  prophetic,  or  improve  upon  that,  he  holds  his  peace. 

Mrs.  Skewton,  prepared  to  greet  her  darling  daughter  and 
dear  son-in-law  with  open  arms,  is  appropriately  attired  for  that 
purpose  in  a  very  youthful  costume,  with  short  sleeves.  At 
present,  however,  her  ripe  charms  are  blooming  in  the  shade  of 
her  own  apartments,  whence  she  has  not  emerged  since  she 
took  possession  of  them  a  few  hours  ago,  and  where  she  is  fast 
growing  fretful,  on  account  of  the  postponement  of  dinner. 
The  maid  who  ought  to  be  a  skeleton,  but  is  in  truth  a  buxom 
damsel,  is,  on  the  other  hand,  in  a  most  amiable  state  :  consider- 
ing her  quarterly  stipend  much  safer  than  heretofore,  and  fore- 
seeing a  great  improvement  in  her  board  and  lodging. 

Where  are  the  happy  pair,  for  whom  this  brave  home  is 
waiting  ?  Do  steam,  tide,  wind,  and  horses  all  abate  their  speed, 
to  linger  on  such  happiness  ?  Does  the  swarm  of  loves  and  graces 
hovering  about  them  retard  their  progress  by  its  numbers  ?  Are 
there  so  many  flowers  in  their  happy  path,  that  they  can  scarcely 
move  along,  without  entanglement  in  thornless  roses,  and 
sweetest  briar  ? 

They  are  here  at  last !  The  noise  of  wheels  is  heard,  grows 
louder,  and  a  carriage  drives  up  to  the  door  1  A  thundering 
knock  from  the  obnoxious  foreigner  anticipates  th&rush  of  Mr. 
Towlinson  and  party  to  open  it  ;  and  Mr.  Dombey  and  his 
bride  alight,  and  walk  in  arm-in-arm. 

"  My  sweetest  Edith  !  "  cries  an  agitated  voice  upon  the 
stairs.  "  My  dearest  Dombey  !  "  and  the  short  sleeves  wreath 
themselves  about  the  happy  couple  in  turn,  and  embrace  them. 

Florence  had  come  dowri  to  the  hall  too,  but  did  not 
advance :  reserving  her  timid  welcome  until  these  nearer  and 
dyarer  transports  should  subside.    But  t-h?  eyes  of  Edith  sought 


478  DOMBRY  AXD  SON. 

her  out,  upon  the  threshold  ;  and  dismissing  her  sensitive  parent 
with  a  sl'-ght  kiss  on  the  cheek,  she  hurried  on  to  Florence  and 
embraced  her 

"  How  do  you  do,  Florence  ?"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  putting  out 
his  hand. 

As  Florence,  trembling,  raised  it  to  her  lips,  she  met  his 
glance.  The  look  was  cold  and  distant  enough,  but  it  stirred 
her  heart  to  think  that  she  observed  in  it  something  more  of 
interest  than  he  had  ever  shown  before.  It  even  expressed  a 
kind  of  faint  surprise,  and  not  a  disagreeable  surprise,  at  sight 
of  her.  She  dared  not  raise  her  eyes  to  his  any  more  ;  but  she 
felt  that  he  looked  at  her  once  again,  and  not  less  favorably. 
Oh  what  a  thrill  of  joy  shot  through  her,  awakened  by  even 
this  intangible  and  baseless  confirmation  of  her  hope  that  she 
would  learn  to  win  him,  through  her  new  and  beautiful  mama ! 

"  You  will  not  be  long  dressing,  Mrs.  Dombey,  I  presume  ?  " 
said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  I  shall  be  ready  immediately." 

"  Let  them  send  up  dinner  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour." 

With  that  Mr.  Dombey  stalked  away  to  his  own  dressing- 
room,  and  Mrs.  Dombey  went  up  stairs  to  hers.  Mrs.  Skewton 
and  Florence  repaired  to  the  drawing-room,  where  that  excellent 
mother  considered  it  incumbent  on  her  to  shed  a  few  irrepres- 
sible tears,  sujDposed  to  be  forced  from  her  by  her  daughter's 
felicity  ;  and  which  she  was  still  drying,  very  gingerly,  with  a 
laced  corner  of  her  pocket-handkerchief,  when  her  son-in-law 
appeared. 

"  And  how,  my  dearest  Dombey,  did  you  find  that  delight- 
fullest  of  cities,  Paris  .-*  "  she  asked,  subduing  her  emotion. 

"  It  was  cold,"  returned  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  Gay  as  ever,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  *'  of  course." 

"  Not  particularly.     I  thought  it  dull,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  Fie,  my  dearest  Dombey  !  "  archly  ;  "  dull  !  " 

"  It  made  that  impression  upon  me,  Madam,"  said  Mr. 
Dombey,  with  grave  politeness.  "  I  believe  Mrs.  Dombey 
found  it  dull  too.  She  mentioned  once  or  twice  that  she 
thought  it  so." 

"  Why,  you  naughty  girl !  "  cried  Mrs.  Skewton,  rallying  her 
dear  child,  who  now  entered,  "  wh;it  dreadfully  heretical  things 
have  you  been  saying  about  Paris  .''  " 

Edith  raised  her  eyebrows  with  an  air  of  weariness ;  and 
passing  the  folding-doors  which  were  thrown  open  to  display 
the  suite  of  rooms  in  tlicir  new  and  handsome  garniture,  and 
barely  glancing  at  \\\xw\  as  the  passed.  s.U  down  by  Florence, 


THE  HAPPY  PAIR. 


479 


"*  My  dear  Donibey,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  *'  how  charmingly 
these  people  have  carried  out  ever)-  idea  that  we  hinted.  They 
have  made  a  perfect  palace  of  the  house,  positively." 

"  It  is  handsome,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  looking  round.  "  I 
directed  that  no  expense  should  be  spared;  and  all  that  money 
could  do,  has  been  done,  I  believe." 

"  And  what  can  it  not  do,  dear  Dombey  ? "  observed  Cleo- 
patra. 

"  It  is  powerful,  Madam,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

He  looked  in  his  solemn  way  towards  his  wife,  but  not  a 
word  said  she. 

"  I  hope,  Mrs.  Dombey,"  addressing  her  after  a  moment's 
silence,  with  especial  distinctness  ;  "  that  these  alterations  meet 
with  your  approval  ?  " 

"  They  are  as  handsome  as  they  can  be,"  she  returned,  with 
haughty  carelessness.  "  They  should  be  so,  of  course.  And  I 
suppose  they  are." 

An  expression  of  scorn  was  habitual  to  the  proud  face,  and 
seemed  inseparable  from  it  ;  but  the  contempt  with  which  it 
received  any  appeal  to  admiration,  respect,  or  consideration  on 
khe  ground  of  his  riches,  no  matter  how  slight  or  ordinary  in 
itself,  was  a  new  and  different  expression,  unequalled  in 
intensity  by  any  other  of  which  it  was  capable.  Whether  Mr. 
Dombey,  wrapped  in  his  own  greatness,  was  at  all  aware  of  this, 
or  no,  there  had  not  been  wanting  opportunities  already  for  his 
complete  enlightenment ,  and  at  that  moment  it  might  have  been 
effected  by  the  one  glance  of  the  dark  eye  that  lighted  on  him, 
after  it  had  rapidly  and  scornfully  surveyed  the  theme  of  his 
self-glorification.  He  might  have  read  in  that  one  glance  that 
nothing  that  his  wealth  could  do,  though  it  were  increased  ten 
thousand  fold,  could  win  him  for  its  own  sake,  one  look  of 
softened  recognition  from  the  defiant  woman,  linked  to  him,  but 
arrayed  with  her  whole  soul  against  him.  He  might  have  read 
in  that  one  glance  that  even  for  its  sordid  and  mercenary  in- 
fluence upon  herself,  she  spurned  it,  while  she  claimed  its  utmost 
power  as  her  right,  her  bargain — as  the  base  and  worthless  rec- 
ompense for  which  she  had  become  his  wife.  He  might  have 
read  in  it  that,  ever  baring  her  own  head  for  the  lightning  of  her 
own  contempt  and  pride  to  strike,  the  most  innocent  allusion  to 
the  power  of  his  riches  degraded  her  anew,  sunk  her  deeper  in 
her  own  respect,  and  made  the  blight  and  waste  within  her  more 
complete. 

But  dinner  was  announced,  and  Mr.  Dombey  led  down 
Cleopatra  ;  Edith  and  his  daughter  following.     Sweeping  past 


4bo 


DOMBEY  AND  SOX. 


the  gold  and  silver  demonstration  on  the  sideboard  as  if  it  were 
heaped-up  dirt,  and  deigning  to  bestow  no  look  upon  the  ele- 
gancies arovnid  her,  she  took  her  place  at  his  board  for  the 
first  time,  and  sat  like  a  statue,  at  the  feast. 

Mr.  Dombey,  being  a  good  deal  in  the  statue  way  himself, 
was  well  enough  pleased  to  see  his  handsome  wife  immovable 
and  proud  and  cold.  Her  deportment  being  always  elegant 
and  graceful,  this  as  a  general  behavior  was  agreeable  and  con- 
genial to  him.  Presiding,  therefore,  with  his  accustomed  dig- 
nity, and  not  at  all  reflecting  on  his  wife  by  any  warmth  or 
hilarity  of  his  own,  he  performed  his  share  of  the  honors  of 
the  table  with  a  cool  satisfaction  ;  and  the  installation  dinner, 
though  not  regarded  down  stairs  as  a  great  success,  or  very 
promising  beginning,  passed  off,  above,  in  a  sufficiently  polite, 
genteel,  and  frosty  manner. 

Soon  after  tea,  Mrs.  Skewton,  who  affected  to  be  quite  over- 
come and  worn  out  by  her  emotions  of  happiness,  arising  in 
the  contemplation  of  her  dear  child  united  to  the  man  of  her 
heart,  but  who,  there  is  reason  to  suppose,  found  this  family 
party  somewhat  dull,  as  she  yawned  for  one  hour  continually 
behind  her  fan,  retired  to  bed.  Edith,  also,  silently  withdrew 
and  came  back  no  more.  Thus,  it  happened  that  Florence,  who 
had  been  up  stairs  to  have  some  conversation  with  Diogenes, 
returning  to  the  drawing-room  with  her  little  work-basket,  found 
no  one  there  but  her  father,  who  was  walking  to  and  fro,  in 
dreary  magnificence. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  Shall  \  go  away.  Papa  ?  "  said  Flor- 
ence faintly,  hesitating  at  the  door. 

"  No,"  returned  Mr.  Dombey,  looking  round  over  his  shoul- 
der ;  "  you  can  come  and  go  here,  Florence,  as  you  please. 
This  is  not  my  private  room." 

Florence  entered,  and  sat  down  at  a  distant  little  table  with 
her  work  :  finding  herself  for  the  first  time  in  her  life — for  the 
very  first  time  within  her  memory  from  her  infancy  to  that  hour 
— alone  with  her  father,  as  his  companion.  She,  his  natural 
companion,  his  only  child,  who  in  her  lonely  life  and  grief  had 
known  the  suffering  of  a  breaking  heart  ;  who,  in  her  rejected 
love,  had  never  breathed  his  name  to  God  at  night,  but  with  a 
tearful  blessing,  heavier  on  him  then  a  curse  ;  who  had  prayed 
to  die  young,  so  she  might  only  die  in  his  arms  ;  who  had,  all 
through,  repaid  the  agony  of  slight  and  coldness,  and  dislike, 
with  patient  un(-xacting  love,  excusing  him,  and  pleading  for 
him,  like  his  better  angel  ! 

She  trembled,  and  her  eyes  were  dim.     His  figure  seemed 


7'HE  FTAPPV  PAIR.  ^g , 

to  grow  ia  helglit  and  bulk  before  her  as  he  paced  the  room: 
n»w  it  was  all  blurred  and  indistinct ;  now  clear  again,  and 
plain ;  and  now  she  seemed  to  think  that  this  had  happened, 
just  the  same,  a  multitude  of  years  ago.  She  yearned  towards 
him,  and  yet  shrunk  from  his  approach.  Unnatural  emotion 
in  a  child,  innocent  of  wrong !  Unnatural  the  hand  that  had 
directed  the  sharp  plough,  which  furrowed  up  her  gentle  nature 
for  the  sowing  of  its  seeds  ! 

Bent  upon  not  distressing  or  offending  him  by  her  dis- 
tress, Florence  controlled  herself,  and  sat  quietly  at  her  work. 
After  a  few  more  turns  across  and  across  the  room,  he  left  ofif 
pacing  it  ;  and  withdrawing  into  a  shadowy  corner  at  some  dis- 
tance, where  there  was  an  easy  chair,  covered  his  head  with  a 
handkerchief,  and  composed  himself  to  sleep. 

It  was  enough  for  Florence  to  sit  there  watching  him  ;  turn- 
ing her  eyes  towards  his  chair  from  time  to  time  ;  watching 
him  with  her  thoughts,  when  her  face  was  intent  upon  her 
work  ;  and  sorrowfully  glad  to  think  that  he  could  sleep,  while 
she  was  there,  and  that  he  was  not  made  restless  by  her  strange 
and  long-forbidden  presence. 

What  would  have  been  her  thoughts  if  she  had  known  that 
he  was  steadily  regarding  her  ;  that  the  veil  upon  his  face,  by 
accident  or  by  design,  was  so  adjusted  that  his  sight  was  free, 
and  that  it  never  wandered  from  her  face  an  instant.  That 
when  she  looked  towards  him,  in  the  obscure  dark  corner,  her 
speaking  eyes,  more  earnest  and  pathetic  in  their  voiceless 
speech  than  all  the  orators  of  all  the  world,  and  impeaching 
him  more  nearly  in  their  mute  address,  met  his,  and  did  not 
know  it.  That  when  she  bent  her  head  again  over  her  work, 
he  drew  his  breath  more  easily,  but  with  the  same  attention 
looked  upon  her  still — upon  her  white  brow  and  her  falling 
hair,  and  busy  hands  ;  and  once  attracted,  seemed  to  have  no 
power  to  turn  his  eyes  away  ! 

And  what  were  his  thoughts  meanwhile?  With  what  emo- 
tions did  he  prolong  the  attentive  gaze  covertly  directed  on  his 
unknown  daughter  ?  Was  there  reproach  to  him  in  the  quiet 
figure  and  the  mild  eyes  ?  Had  he  begun  to  feel  her  disre- 
garded claims,  and  did  they  touch  him  home  at  last,  and 
waken  him  to  some  sense  of  his  cruel  injustice  ? 

There  are  yielding  moments  in  the  lives  of  the  sternest  and 
harshest  men,  though  such  men  often  keep  their  secret  well. 
The  sight  of  her  in  her  beauty,  almost  changed  into  a  woman 
without  his  knowledge,  may  have  struck  out  some  such  mo- 
ments even  in  his  life  of  pride.  Some  passing  thought  that  he 
81 


482  bOMFSF.Y  AA'D  SOA\ 

had  had  a  happy  home  within  his  reach — had  had  a  household 
spirit  bending  at  his  feet — had  overlooked  it  in  his  stiff-necked 
sullen  arrogance,  and  wandered  away  and  lost  himself,  may 
have  engendered  them.  Some  simple  eloquence  distinctly 
heard,  though  only  uttered  in  her  eyes,  unconscious  that  he 
read  them,  as  "  By  the  death-beds  I  have  tended,  by  the  child- 
hood I  have  suffered,  by  our  meeting  in  this  dreary  house  at 
midnight,  by  the  cry  wrung  from  me  in  the  anguish  of  my  heart, 
oh,  father,  turn  to  me  and  seek  a  refuge  in  my  love  before  it 
is  too  late  1  "  may  have  arrested  them.  Meaner  and  lower 
thoughts,  as  that  his  dead  boy  was  now  superseded  by  new 
ties,  and  he  could  forgive  the  having  been  supplanted  in  his 
affection,  may  have  occasioned  them.  The  mere  association  of 
her  as  an  ornament,  with  all  the  ornament  and  pomp  about 
him,  may  have  been  sufhcient.  But  as  he  looked  he  soft- 
ened to  her,  more  and  more.  As  he  looked  she  became 
blended  with  the  child  he  had  loved,  and  he  could  hardly  sep- 
arate the  two.  As  he  looked,  he  saw  her  for  an  instant  by  a 
clearer  and  a  brighter  light,  not  bending  over  that  child's  pillow 
as  his  rival — monstrous  thought — but  as  the  spirit  of  his  home, 
and  in  the  action  tending  himself  no  less,  as  he  sat  once  more 
with  his  bowed-down  head  upon  his  hand  at  the  foot  of  the  lit- 
tle bed.  He  felt  inclined  to  speak  to  her,  and  call  her  to  him. 
The  words  "  Florence,  come  here  !  "  were  rising  to  his  lips — 
but  slowly  and  with  difficulty,  they  were  so  very  strange — when 
they  were  checked  and  stifled  by  a  footstep  on  the  stair. 

It  was  his  wife's.  She  had  exchanged  her  dinner  dress  for 
a  loose  robe,  and  unbound  her  hair,  which  fell  freely  about  her 
neck.     But  this  was  not  the  change  in  her  that  startled  him. 

*'  Florence,  dear,"  she  said,  "  I  have  been  looking  for  you 
everywhere." 

As  she  sat  down  at  the  side  of  Florence,  she  stooped  and 
kissed  her  hand.  He  hardly  knew  his  wife.  She  was  so 
changed.  It  was  not  merely  that  her  smile  was  new  to  him — 
though  that  he  had  never  seen  ;  but  her  manner,  the  tone  of 
her  voice,  the  light  of  her  eyes,  the  interest,  and  confidence, 
and  winning  wish  to  please,  expressed  in  all — this  was  not 
Edith. 

"  Softly,  dear  Mama.     Papa  is  asleep." 

It  was  Edith  now.  She  looked  towards  the  corner  where 
he  was,  and  he  knew  that  face  and  manner  very  well. 

"  I  scarcely  thought  you  could  be  here,  Florence." 

Again,  how  altered  and  how  softened,  in  an  instant  ! 

"  1  left  here  early,"  pursued    Kdith,  "  purposely  to   sit  up 


THE  UAPPy  PAIR.  483 

itairs  and  talk  with  you.  But  going  to  your  room,  I  found  my 
bird  was  flown,  and  I  have  been  waiting  there  ever  since,  ex> 
pecting  its  return." 

If  it  had  been  a  bird,  indeed,  she  could  not  have  taken  it 
more  tenderly  and  gently  to  her  breast,  than  she  did  Florence. 

"  Come,  dear  !  " 

"  Papa  will  not  expect  to  find  me,  I  suppose,  when  he 
wakes,"  hesitated  Florence. 

"  Do  you  think  he  will,  Florence  ?  "  said  Edith,  looking  full 
upon  her. 

Florence  drooped  her  head,  and  rose,  and  put  up  her  work- 
basket.  Edith  drew  her  hand  through  her  arm,  and  they  went 
out  of  the  room  like  sisters.  Her  very  step  was  different  and 
new  to  him,  Mr.  Dombey  thought,  as  his  eyes  followed  her  to 
the  door. 

He  sat  in  his  shadowy  corner  so  long,  that  the  church 
clocks  struck  the  hour  three  times  before  he  moved  that  night. 
All  that  while  his  face  was  still  intent  upon  the  spot  where 
Florence  had  been  seated.  The  room  grew  darker,  as  the 
candles  waned  and  went  out  ;  but  a  darkness  gathered  on  his 
face,  exceeding  any  that  the  night  could  cast,  and  rested  there. 

Florence  and  Edith,  seated  before  the  fire  in  the  remote 
room  where  little  Paul  had  died,  talked  together  for  a  long 
time.  Diogenes,  who  was  of  the  party,  had  at  first  objected  to 
the  admission  of  Edith,  and,  even  in  deference  to  his  mistress's 
wish,  had  only  permitted  it  under  growling  protest.  But, 
emerging  by  little  and  little  from  the  ante-room,  whither  he  had 
retired  in  dudgeon,  he  soon  appeared  to  comprehend,  that  with 
the  most  amiable  intentions  he  had  made  one  of  those  mistakes 
which  will  occasionally  arise  in  the  best-regulated  dogs'  minds  ; 
as  a  friendly  apology  for  which  he  stuck  himself  up  on  end  be- 
tween the  two,  in  a  very  hot  place  in  front  of  the  fire,  and  sat 
panting  at  it,  with  his  tongue  out,  and  a  most  imbecile  expres- 
sion of  countenance,  listening  to  the  conversation. 

It  turned,  at  first,  on  Florence's  books  and  favorite  pur- 
suits, and  on  the  manner  in  which  she  had  beguiled  the  interval 
since  the  marriage.  The  last  theme  opened  up  to  her  a  sub- 
ject which  lay  very  near  her  heart,  and  she  said,  with  the  tears 
starting  to  her  eyes  : 

■'  Oh  Mama !    I  have  had  a  great  sorrow  since  that  day." 

"  You  a  great  sorrow,  Florence  !  " 

"  Yes.     Poor  Walter  is  drowned." 

Florence  spread  her  hands  before  her  face,  and  wept  with 
all  her  heart.     Many  as  were  the  secret  tears  which  Walter's 


4^4  DOMBEY  AND  SOIV. 

fate  had  cost  her,  they  flowed  yet,  when  she  thought  or  spoke 
of  him. 

"  But  tell  me,  dear,"  said  Edith,  soothing  her.  "  Who  was 
Walter  ?     What  was  he  to  you  1 " 

"  He  was  my  brother.  Mama.  After  dear  Paul  died,  we 
said  we  would  be  brother  and  sister.  I  had  known  him  a  long 
time — from  a  little  child.  He  knew  Paul,  who  liked  him  very 
much  ;  Paul  said,  almost  at  the  last,  "  Take  care  of  Walter, 
dear  Papa  !  I  was  fond  of  him  ?  "  Walter  had  been  brought 
in  to  see  him,  and  was  there  then — in  this  room." 

"  And  did  he  take  care  of  Walter  ?  "  inquired  Edith, 
sternly, 

"  Papa  ?  He  appointed  him  to  go  abroad.  He  was 
drowned  in  shipwreck  on  his  voyage,"  said  Florence,  sobbing. 

"  Does  he  know  that  he  is  dead  ?  "  asked  Edith. 

"  I  cannot  tell.  Mama.  I  have  no  means  of  knowing. 
Dear  Mama  !  "  cried  Florence,  clinging  to  her  as  for  help,  and 
hiding  her  face  upon  her  bosom,  "  I  know  that  you  have 
seen — " 

"  Stay  !  Stop,  Florence."  Edith  turned  so  pale,  and  spoke 
so  earnestly,  that  Florence  did  not  need  her  restraining  hand 
^pon  her  lips.  "  Tell  me  all  about  Walter  first ;  let  me  under- 
stand this  history  all  though." 

Florence  related  it,  and  everything  belonging  to  it,  even 
down  to  the  friendship  of  Mr.  Toots,  of  whom  she  could  hardly 
speak  in  her  distress  without  a  tearful  smile,  although  she  was 
deeply  grateful  to  him.  When  she  had  concluded  her  account, 
to  the  whole  of  which  Edith,  holding  her  hand,  listened  with 
close  attention,  and  when  a  silence  had  succeeded,  Edith  said  : 

"  What  is  it  that  you  know  I  have  seen,  Florence  .? " 

"  That  I  am  not,"  said  Florence,  with  the  same  mute  ap- 
paal,  and  the  same  quick  concealment  of  her  face  as  before, 
"  that  I  am  not  a  favorite  child,  Mama.  I  never  have  been.  I 
have  never  known  how  to  be.  I  have  missed  the  way,  and  had 
no  one  to  show  it  to  me.  Oh,  let  me  learn  from  you  how  to 
become  dearer  to  Papa.  Teach  me  !  you,  who  can  so  well  !  " 
and  clinging  closer  to  her,  with  some  broken  fervent  words  of 
gratitude  and  endearment,  Florence,  relieved  of  her  sad  secret, 
wept  long,  but  not  as  painfully  as  of  yore,  within  the  encircling 
arms  of  her  new  mother. 

Pale  even  to  her  lips,  and  with  a  face  that  strove  for  com- 
posure until  its  proud  beauty  was  as  fixed  as  death,  Edith 
looked  down  upon  the  weeping  girl,  and  once  kissed  her. 
Then  gradually  disengaging  herself,  and  putting  Florence  away, 


THE  HAPPY  PAIR.  ^gj 

she  said,  stately,  and  quiet  as  a  marble  image,  and  in  a  voice 
that  deepened  as  she  spoke,  but  had  no  other  token  of  emotion 
in  it : 

"  Florence,  you  do  not  know  me  !  Heaven  forbid  that  you 
should  learn  from  me  !  " 

"  Not  learn  from  you  ?  "  repeated  Florence,  in  surprise. 

"  That  I  should  teach  you  how  to  love,  or  be  loved,  Heaven 
forbid  !  "  said  Edith.  "  If  you  could  teach  me,  that  were  bet- 
ter ;  but  it  is  too  late.  You  are  dear  to  me,  Florence.  I  did 
not  think  that  anything  could  ever  be  so  dear  to  me,  as  you 
are  in  this  little  time." 

She  saw  that  Florence  would  have  spoken  here,  so  checked 
her  with  her  hand,  and  went  on. 

"  I  will  be  your  true  friend  always.  I  will  cherish  you,  as 
much,  if  not  as  well,  as  any  one  in  this  world  could.  You  may 
trust  in  me — I  know  it  and  I  say  it,  dear, — with  the  whole  confi- 
dence even  of  your  pure  heart.  There  are  hosts  of  women 
whom  he  might  have  married,  better  and  truer  in  all  other  re- 
spects than  I  am,  Florence  ;  but  there  is  not  one  who  could 
come  here,  his  wife,  whose  heart  could  beat  with  greater  truth 
to  you  than  mine  does." 

"  I  know  it,  dear  Mama  !  "  cried  Florence.  "  From  that 
first  most  happy  day  I  have  known  it." 

"  Most  happy  day  !  "  Edith  seemed  to  repeat  the  words 
involuntarily,  and  went  on.  "  Though  the  merit  is  not  mine, 
for  I  thought  little  of  you  until  I  saw  you,  let  the  undeserved 
reward  be  mine  in  your  trust  and  love.  And  in  this — in  this, 
Florence  ;  on  the  first  night  of  my  taking  up  my  abode  here  ;  I 
am  led  on  as  it  is  best  I  should  be,  to  say  it  for  the  first  and 
last  time." 

Florence,  without  knowing  why,  felt  almost  afraid  to  hear 
her  proceed,  but  kept  her  eyes  riveted  on  the  beautiful  face  so 
fixed  upon  her  own. 

"  Never  seek  to  find  in  me,"  said  Edith,  laying  her  hand 
upon  her  breast,  "  what  is  not  here.  Never  if  you  can  help  it, 
Florence,  fall  off  from  me  because  it  is  not  here.  Little  by 
little  you  will  know  me  better,  and  the  time  will  come  when 
you  will  know  me,  as  I  know  myself.  Then,  be  as  lenient  to 
me  as  you  can,  and  do  not  turn  to  bitterness  the  only  sweet 
remembrance  I  shall  have." 

The  tears  that  were  visible  in  her  eyes  as  she  kept  them 
fixed  on  Florence,  showed  that  the  composed  face  was  but  as 
a  handsome  mask  ;  but  she  preserved  it,  and  continued : 

^'  I  hav(  seen  what  you  say  and  know  how  true  it  i§.    But 


-^6  DO^rnEY  AXD  SOX. 

believe  me — you  uill  soon,  if  you  cannot  now — there  is  no  one 
on  this  earth  less  qualified  to  set  it  right  or  help  you,  Florence, 
than  I .  Never  ask  me  why,  or  speak  to  me  about  it  or  of  my 
husband,  more.  There  should  be,  so  far,  a  division,  and  a 
silence  between  us  two,  like  the  grave  itself." 

She  sat  for  some  time  silent  ;  Florence  scarcely  venturing 
to  breathe  meanwhile,  as  dim  and  imperfect  shadows  of  the 
truth,  and  all  its  daily  consequences,  chased  each  other  through 
her  terrified,  yet  incredulous  imagination.  Almost  as  soon  as 
she  had  ceased  to  speak,  Edith's  face  began  to  subside  from 
its  set  composure  to  that  quieter  and  more  relenting  aspect, 
which  it  usually  wore  when  she  and  Florence  were  alone 
together.  She  shaded  it,  after  this  change,  with  her  hands  ; 
and  when  she  arose,  and  with  an  affectionate  embrace  bade 
Florence  good-night,  went  quickly,  and  without  looking  round. 

But  when  Florence  was  in  bed,  and  the  room  was  dark 
except  for  the  glow  of  the  fire,  Edith  returned,  and  saying  that 
she  could  not  sleep,  and  that  her  dressing-room  was  lonely, 
drew  a  chair  upon  the  hearth,  and  watched  the  embers  as  they 
died  away.  Florence  watched  them  too  from  her  bed,  until 
they,  and  the  noble  figure  before  them,  crowned  with  its  flowing 
hair,  and  in  its  thoughtful  eyes  reflecting  back  their  light,  be- 
came confused  and  indistinct,  and  finally  were  lost  in  slumber. 

In  her  sleep,  however,  Florence  could  not  lose  an  undefined 
impression  of  what  had  so  recently  passed.  It  formed  the 
subject  of  her  dreams,  and  haunted  her;  now  in  one  shape, 
now  in  another  ;  but  always  oppressively  ;  and  with  a  sense  of 
fear.  She  dreamed  of  seeking  her  father  in  wildernesses,  of 
following  his  track  up  fearful  heights,  and  down  into  deep 
mines  and  caverns  ;  of  being  charged  with  something  that 
would  release  him  from  extraordinary  suffering — she  knew  not 
what,  or  why — yet  never  being  able  to  attain  the  goal  and  set 
him  free.  Then  she  saw  him  dead,  upon  that  very  bed,  and  in 
that  very  room,  and  knew  that  he  had  never  loved  her  to  the 
last,  and  fell  upon  his  cold  breast,  passionately  weeping.  Then 
a  prospect  opened,  and  a  river  flowed,  and  a  plainti\e  voice 
she  knew,  cried,  "  It  is  running  on,  Floy  !  It  has  never  stop- 
ped !  You  are  moving  with  it !  "  And  she  saw  him  at  a  dis- 
tance stretching  out  his  arms  towards  her,  while  a  figure  such 
as  Walter's  used  to  be,  stood  near  him,  awfully  serene  and  still. 
In  every  vision,  Edith  came  and  went,  sometimes  to  her  joy, 
sometimes  to  her  sorrow,  until  they  were  alone  upon  the  brink 
of  a  dark  grave,  and  lulith  pointing  down,  she  looked  and  saw 
.-"What ! — another  Edith  lyin^  at  the  bottom. 


ijo  Use-  warming.  ^  8  7 

In  the  tenor  of  this  dream,  she  cried  out  and  awoke,  she 
thought.  A  soft  voice  seemed  to  whisper  in  her  ear,  "  Florence, 
dear  Florence,  it  is  nothing  but  a  dream  !  "  and  stretching  out 
her  arms,  she  returned  the  caress  of  her  new  mama,  who  then 
went  out  at  the  door  in  the  light  of  the  gray  morning.  In  a 
moment,  Florence  sat  up  wondering  whether  this  had  really 
taken  place  or  not ;  but  she  was  only  certain  that  it  was  gray 
morning  indeed,  and  that  the  blackened  ashes  of  the  fire  were 
Qn  the  hearth,  and  that  she  was  alone. 

So  passed  the  night  on  which  the  happy  pair  came  home. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

HOUSE-WARMING. 


Many  succeeding  days  passed  in  like  manner ;  except  that 
there  were  numerous  visits  received  and  paid,  and  that  Mrs. 
Skewton  held  little  levees  in  her  own  apartments,  at  which 
Major  Bagstock  was  a  frequent  attendant,  and  that  Florence 
encountered  no  second  look  from  her  father,  although  she  saw 
him  every  day.  Nor  had  she  much  communication  in  words 
with  her  new  mama,  who  was  imperious  and  proud  to  all  the 
house  but  her — Florence  could  not  but  observe  that — and  who, 
although  she  always  sent  for  her  or  went  to  her  when  she  came 
home  from  visiting,  and  would  always  go  into  her  room  at 
night,  before  retiring  to  rest,  however  late  the  hour,  and  never 
lost  an  opportunity  of  being  with  her,  was  often  her  silent  and 
thoughtful  companion  for  a  long  time  together. 

Florence,  who  had  hoped  for  so  much  from  this  marriage, 
could  not  help  sometimes  comparing  the  bright  house  with  the 
faded  dreary  place  out  of  which  it  had  arisen,  and  wondering 
when,  in  any  shape,  it  would  begin  to  be  a  home  ;  for  that  it 
was  no  home  then,  for  any  one,  though  everything  went  on 
luxuriously  and  regularly,  she  had  always  a  secret  misgiving. 
Many  an  hour  of  sorrowful  reflection  by  day  and  night,  and 
many  a  tear  of  blighted  hope,  Florence  bestowed  upon  the 
assurance  her  new  mama  had  given  her  so  strongly,  that  there 
was  no  one  on  the  earth  more  powerless  than  herself  to  teach 
her  how  to  win  her  father's  heart.  And  soon  Florence  began 
to  think — resolved  to  think  would  be  the  truer  phrase — that  as. 


^Sg  ^OMBEV  AND  S0\\ 

no  one  knew  so  well,  how  hopeless  of  being  subdued  or  changed 
her  father's  coldness  to  her  was,  so  she  had  given  her  this 
warning,  and  forbidden  the  subject  in  very  compassion.  Un- 
selfisli  here,  as  in  her  every  act  and  fancy,  Florence  preferred 
to  bear  the  pain  of  this  new  wound,  rather  than  encourage  an< 
faint  foreshadowings  of  the  truth  as  it  concerned  her  father  ; 
tender  of  him,  even  in  her  wandering  thoughts.  As  for  his 
home,  she  hoped  it  would  become  a  better  one,  when  its  state 
of  novelty  and  transition  should  be  over ;  and  for  herself, 
thought  little  and  lamented  less. 

If  none  of  the  new  family  were  particularly  at  home  in 
private,  it  was  resolved  that  Mrs.  Dombey  at  least  should  be 
at  home  in  public,  without  delay.  A  series  of  entertainments 
in  celebration  of  the  late  nuptials,  and  in  cultivation  of  society, 
were  arranged,  chiefly  by  Mr.  Dombey  and  Mrs.  Skewton  ;  and 
it  was  settled  that  the  festive  proceedings  should  commence  by 
Mrs.  Dombey's  being  at  home  upon  a  certain  evening,  and  by 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Dombey's  requesting  the  honor  of  the  company 
of  a  great  many  incongruous  people  to  dinner  on  the  same  day. 

Accordingly,  Mr,  Dombey  ])roduced  a  list  of  sundry- eastern 
magnates  who  were  to  be  bidden  to  this  feast  on  his  behalf ; 
to  which  Mrs.  Skewton,  acting  for  her  dearest  child,  \vho  was 
haughtily  careless  on  the  subject,  subjoined  a  western  list, 
comprising  Cousin  Feenix,  not  yet  returned  to  Baden  Baden  ; 
greatly  to  the  detriment  of  his  personal  estate  ;  and  a  variety 
of  moths  of  various  degrees  and  ages,  who  had,  at  various 
times,  fluttered  round  the  light  of  her  fair  daughter,  or  herself, 
without  any  lasting  injury  to  their  wings.  Florence  was  en- 
rolled as  a  member  of  the  dinner  party,  by  Edith's  command — • 
elicited  by  a  moment's  doubt  and  hesitation  on  the  part  of  Mrs. 
Skewton  ;  and  Florence,  with  a  wondering  heart,  and  with  a 
quick  instinctive  sense  of  everything  that  grated  on  her  father 
in  the  least,  took  her  silent  share  in  the  proceedings  of  the 
day. 

The  proceedings  commenced  by  Mr.  Dombey,  in  a  cravat 
of  extraordinary  height  and  stiffness,  walking  restlessly  about 
the  drawing-room  until  the  hour  appointed  for  dinner  ;  punc- 
tual to  whicli,  an  East  India  Director,  of  immense  wealth,  in  a 
waistcoat  apparently  constructed  in  serviceable  deal  by  some 
plain  carpenter,  but  really  engendered  in  the  tailor's  art,  and 
composed  of  the  material  called  nankeen,  arrived,  and  was  re- 
ceived by  Mr.  Dombey  alone.  'I "he  next  stage  of  the  proceed- 
ings was  Mr.  Dombey's  sending  his  compliments  to  Mrs.  Dom- 
bey, with  a  correct  statement  of  the  time ;  and  the  next,  the 


HOUSE-  WARMING.  489 

East  India  Director's  falling  prostrate,  in  a  conversational  point 
of  view,  and  as  Mr.  Dombey  was  not  the  man  to  pick  him  up, 
staring  at  the  fire  until  rescue  appeared  in  the  person  of  Mrs. 
Skewton ;  whom  the  director,  as  a  pleasant  start  in  life  for  the 
evening,  mistook  for  Mrs.  Dombey,  and  greeted  with  enthu- 
siasm. 

The  next  arrival  was  a  Bank  Director,  reputed  to  be  able  to 
buy  up  anything — human  nature  generally,  if  he  should  take 
it  in  his  head  to  influence  the  money  market  in  that  direction — < 
but  who  was  a  wonderfully  modest  spoken  man,  almost  boast- 
fully so,  and  mentioned  his  "  little  place  "  at  Kingston-upon- 
Thames,  and  its  just  being  barely  equal  to  giving  Dombey  a 
bed  and  a  chop,  if  he  would  come  and  visit  it.  Ladies,  he  said, 
it  was  not  for  a  man  who  lived  in  his  quiet  way  to  take  upon 
himself  to  invite — but  if  Mrs.  Skewton  and  her  daughter,  Mrs, 
Dombey,  should  ever  find  themselves  in  that  direction,  and 
would  do  him  the  honor  to  look  at  a  little  bit  of  a  shrubbery 
they  would  find  there,  and  a  poor  little  flower-bed  or  so,  and  a 
humble  apology  for  a  pinery,  and  two  or  three  little  attempts 
of  that  sort  without  any  pretension,  they  would  distinguish  him 
very  much.  Carrying  out  his  character,  this  gentleman  was 
very  plainly  dressed,  in  a  wisp  of  cambric  for  a  neckcloth,  big 
shoes,  a  coat  that  was  too  loose  for  him,  and  a  pair  of  trousers 
that  were  too  spare  ;  and  mention  being  made  of  the  Opera  by 
Mrs.  Skewton,  he  said  he  very  seldom  went  there,  for  he  couldn't 
afford  it.  It  seemed  greatly  to  delight  and  exhilarate  him  to 
say  so  :  and  he  beamed  on  his  audience  afterwards,  with  his 
hands  in  his  pockets,  and  excessive  satisfaction  twinkling  in  his 
eyes. 

Now  Mrs.  Dombey  appeared,  beautiful  and  proud,  and  as 
disdainful  and  defiant  of  them  all  as  if  the  bridal  wreath  upon 
her  head  had  been  a  garland  of  steel  spikes  put  on  to  force 
concession  from  her  which  she  would  die  sooner  than  yield. 
With  her  was  Florence.  When  they  entered  together,  the 
shadow  of  the  night  of  the  return  again  darkened  Mr.  Dombey's 
face.  But  unobserved  :  for  Florence  did  not  venture  to  raise 
her  eyes  to  his,  and  Edith's  indifference  was  too  supreme  to 
take  the  least  heed  of  him. 

The  arrivals  quickly  became  numerous.  More  directors, 
chairmen  of  public  companies,  elderly  ladies  carrying  burdens 
on  their  heads  for  full  dress,  Cousin  Feenix,  Major  Bagstock, 
friends  of  Mrs.  Skewton,  with  the  same  bright  bloom  on  their 
complexion,  and  very  precious  necklaces  on  very  withered  necks. 
Among  these,  a  young  lady  of  sixty-five,  remarkably  goolly 


490 


DOMBF.Y  A.VD  SON 


dressed  as  to  her  back  and  shoulders,  who  spoke  with  an  en 
gaging  lisp,  and  whose  eyelids  wouldn't  keep  up  well,  without 
a  great  deal  of  trouble  on  her  part,  and  whose  manners  had 
that  indefinable  charm  which  so  frequently  attaches  to  the  gid- 
diness of  youth.  As  the  greater  part  of  Mr.  Dombey's  list 
were  disposed  to  be  taciturn,  and  the  greater  part  of  Mrs. 
Dombey's  list  were  disposed  to  be  talkative,  and  there  was  no 
sympathy  between  them,  Mrs.  Dombey's  list,  by  magnetic 
agreement,  entered  into  a  bond  of  union  against  Mr.  Dombey's 
]ist,  who,  wandering  about  the  rooms  in  a  desolate  manner,  or 
seeking  refuge  in  corners,  entangled  themselves  with  company 
coming  in,  and  became  barricaded  behind  sofas,  and  had  doors 
opened  smartly  from  without  against  their  heads,  and  under- 
went every  sort  of  discomfiture. 

When  dinner  was  announced,  Mr.  Dombey  took  down  an 
old  lady  like  a  crimso-n  \'elvet  pincushion  stuffed  with  bank 
notes,  who  might  have  been  the  identical  old  ladv  of  Thread- 
needle  Street,  she  was  so  rich,  and  looked  so  unaccommodating  : 
Cousin  Peenix  took  down  Mrs.  Dombey;  Major  I'agstock  took 
down  Mrs.  Skewton  ;  the  young  thing  with  the  shoulders  was 
bestowed,  as  an  extinguisher,  upon  the  East  India  Director; 
and  the  remaining  ladies  were  left  on  view  in  the  drawing-room 
by  the  remaining  gentlemen,  until  a  forlorn  hope  volunteered 
to  conduct  them  down  stairs,  and  those  brave  spirits  with  their 
captives  blocked  up  the  dining-room  door,  shutting  out  seven 
mild  men  in  the  stony-hearted  hall.  When  all  the  resv  were 
got  in  and  were  seated,  one  of  these  mild  men  still  appeared, 
in  smiling  confusion,  totally  destitute  and  unprovided  for,  and 
escorted  by  the  butler,  made  the  complete  circuit  of  the  table 
twice  before  his  chair  could  be  found,  which  it  finally  was,  on 
Mrs.  Dombey's  left  hand  ;  after  which  the  mild  man  never  held 
up  his  head  again. 

Now,  the  spacious  dining-room,  with  the  company  seated 
round  the  glittering  table,  busy  with  their  glittering  spoons, 
and  knives  and  forks,  and  plates,  might  have  been  taken  for  a 
grown-up  exposition  of  Tom  Tiddler's  ground,  where  children 
pick  up  gold  and  siher,  Mr.  Dombey, "as  Tiddler,  looked  his 
character  to  admiration  ;  and  the  long  plateau  of  jirecious  metal 
frosted,  separating  him  from  Mrs.  bombey,  whereon  frosted 
Cupids  offered  scentless  flowers  to  each  of  them,  was  allegorical 
to  see. 

Cousin  Feenix  was  in  great  force,  and  looked  astonishingly 
young.  But  he  w\as  sojiietimes  thoughtless  in  his  good  humor 
■—his  memory  occasionally  wandering  like  his  legs — and  on  this 


HO  USE-  WA  RMING.  ^*g^ 

occasion  caused  the  company  to  shudder.  It  happened  thus. 
The  young  lady  with  the  back,  who  regarded  Cousin  Feenix 
with  sentiments  of  tenderness,  had  entrapped  the  East  India 
Director  into  leading  her  to  the  chair  next  him  ;  in  return  for 
which  good  office,  she  immediately  abandoned  the  Director, 
,who,  being  shaded  on  the  other  side  by  a  gloomy  bkck  velvet 
!>hat  surmounting  a  bony  and  speechless  female  with  a  fan, 
yielded  to  a  depression  of  spirits  and  withdrew  into  himself. 
Cousin  Feenix  and  the  young  lady  were  very  lively  and  humor- 
ous, and  the  young  lady  laughed  so  much  at  something  Cousin 
Feenix  related  to  her,  that  Major  Bagstock  begged  leave  to  in- 
quire on  behalf  of  Mrs.  Skewton  (they  were  sitting  opposite,  a 
little  lower  down),  whether  that  might  not  be  considered  public 
property. 

"  Why,  upon  my  life,"  said  Cousin  Feenix,  "  there's  nothing 
in  it  ;  it  really  is  not  worth  repeating :  in  point  of  fact,  it's 
merely  an  anecdote  of  Jack  Adams.  I  dare  say  my  friend 
Dombey  ;  "  for  the  general  attention  was  concentrated  on  Cous- 
in Feenix;  "may  remember  Jack  Adams,  Jack  Adams,  not 
Joe  ;  that  was  his  brother.  Jack — little  Jack — man  with  a  cast 
in  his  eye,  and  slight  impediment  in  his  speech — man  who  sat 
for  somebody's  borough.  We  used  to  call  him  in  my  parliamen- 
tary time  W.  P.  Adams,  in  consequence  of  his  being  Warming 
Pan  for  a  young  fellow  who  was  in  his  minority.  Perhaps  my 
friend  Dombey  may  have  known  the  man  ?  " 

Mr.  Dombey,  who  was  as  likely  to  have  known  Guy  Fawkes, 
replied  in  the  negative.  But  one  of  the  seven  mild  men  unex- 
pectedly leaped  into  distinction,  by  saying  he  had  known  him, 
and  adding — "  always  wore  Hessian  boots  !  " 

"  Exactly,"  said  Cousin  Feenix,  bending  forward  to  see  the 
mild  man,  and  smile  encouragement  at  him  down  the  table. 
"That  was  Jack.     Joe  wore — " 

"  Tops  !  "  cried  the  mild  man,  rising  in  public  estimation 
every  instant. 

"  Of  course,"  said  Cousin  Feenix,  "  you  were  intimate  with 
'em  ?  " 

"  I  knew  them  both,"  said  the  mild  man.  With  whom  Mr. 
Dombey  immediately  took  wine. 

"  Devilish  good  fellow,  Jack  !  "  said  Cousin  Feenix,  again 
bending  forward,  and  smiling. 

•'  Excellent,"  returned  the  mild  man,  becoming  bold  on  his 
success.     "  One  of  the  best  fellows  I  ever  knew." 

"  No  doubt  you  have  heard  the  story  ?  "  said  Cousin 
Feenix. 


492  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"I  shall  know,"  replied  the  bold  mild  man,  "when  I  have 
heard  your  Ludship  tell  it.  With  that,  he  leaned  back  in  his 
chair  and  smiled  at  the  ceiling,  as  knowing  it  by  heart,  and  be* 
ing  already  tickled. 

"  In  point  of  fact,  it's  nothing  of  a  story  in  itself,"  said 
Cousin  Feenix,  addressing  the  table  with  a  smile,  and  a  gay 
shake  of  his  head,  "  and  not  worth  a  word  of  preface.  But  it's 
illustrative  of  the  neatness  of  Jack's  humor.  The  fact  is,  that 
Jack  was  invited  down  to  a  marriage — which  I  think  took  place 
in  Barkshire  .^  "  I 

"  Shropshire,"  said  the  bold  mild  man,  finding  himself  ap- 
pealed to. 

"  Was  it  ?  Well  !  In  point  of  fact  it  might  have  been  in 
any  shire,"  said  Cousin  Feenix.  "  So  my  friend  being  invited 
down  to  this  marriage  in  Anyshire,"  with  a  pleasant  sense  of 
the  readiness  of  this  joke,  "goes.  Just  as  some  of  us,  having 
liad  the  honor  of  being  invited  to  the  marriage  of  my  lovely  and 
accomplished  relative  with  my  friend  Dombey,  didn't  require  to 
be  asked  twice,  and  were  devilish  glad  to  be  present  on  so  in- 
teresting an  occasion. — Goes — Jack  goes.  Now,  this  marriage 
was,  in  point  of  fact,  the  marriage  of  an  uncommonly  fine  girl 
with  a  man  for  whom  she  didn't  care  a  button,  but  whom  she 
accepted  on  account  of  his  property,  which  was  immense. 
When  Jack  returned  to  town,  after  the  nuptials,  a  man  he  knew, 
meeting  him  in  the  lobby  of  the  House  of  Commons,  says, 
'Well,  Jack,  how  are  the  ill-matched  couple.^ '  'Ill-matched,' 
says  Jack.  '  Not  at  all.  It's  a  perfectly  fair  and  equal  trans- 
action. She  is  regularly  bought,  and  you  may  take  your  oath, 
he  is  regularly  sold  !  '  " 

In  his  full  enjoyment  of  this  culminating  point  of  his  story 
the  shudder,  which  had  gone  all  round  the  table  like  an  electric 
spark,  struck  Cousin  Feenix,  and  he  stopped.  Not  a  smile 
occasioned  by  the  only  general  topic  of  conversation  broached 
that  day,  appeared  on  any  face.  A  profound  silence  ensued ; 
and  the  wretched  mild  man,  who  had  been  as  innocent  of  any 
real  foreknowledge  of  the  story  as  the  child  unborn,  had  the 
exquisite  misery  of  reading  in  every  eye  that  he  was  regarded 
as  the  prime  mover  of  the  mischief. 

Mr.  Dombey's  face  was  not  a  changeful  one,  and  being  cast 
in  its  mould  of  state  that  day,  showed  little  other  ajjprehension 
of  the  story,  if  any,  than  that  which  he  expressed  when  he  said 
solemnly,  amidst  tlie  silence,  that  it  was  "  Very  good."  There 
was  a  rapid  glance  from  Fdith  towards  Florence,  but  otherwise 
she  remained,  externally,  impassive  and  unconscious. 


HO  USE- 1 VA  RMINO.  493 

Through  the  various  stages  of  rich  meats  and  wines,  con- 
tinual gold  and  silver,  dainties  of  earth,  air,  fire,  and  water, 
heaped-up  fruits,  and  that  unnecessary  article  in  Mr.  Dombey's 
banquets — ice — the  dinner  slowly  made  its  way  :  the  later 
stages  being  achieved  to  the  sonorous  music  of  incessant  double 
knocks,  announcing  the  arrival  of  visitors,  whose  portion  of 
the  feast  was  limited  to  the  smell  thereof.  When  Mrs.  Dombey 
rose,  it  was  a  sight  to  see  her  lord,  with  stiff  throat  and  erect 
head,  hold  the  door  open  for  the  withdrawal  of  the  ladies  ;  and 
to  see  how  she  swept  past  him  with  his  daughter  on  her  arm. 

Mr.  Dombey  was  a  grave  sight,  behind  the  decanters,  in  a 
state  of  dignity  ;  and  the  East  India  Director  was  a  forlorn 
sight  near  the  unoccupied  end  of  the  table,  in  a  state  of  soli- 
tude ;  and  the  Major  was  a  military  sight,  relating  stories  of 
the  Duke  of  York  to  six  of  the  seven  mild  men  (the  ambitious 
one  was  utterly  quenched)  ;  and  the  Bank  Director  was  a  lowly 
sight,  making  a  plan  of  his  little  attempt  at  a  pinery,  with  des- 
sert-knives, for  a  group  of  admirers  ;  and  Cousin  Feenix  was 
a  thoughtful  sight,  as  he  smoothed  his  long  wristbands  and 
stealthily  adjusted  his  wig.  But  all  these  sights  were  of  short 
duration,  being  speedily  broken  up  by  coffee,  and  the  deser- 
tion of  the  room. 

There  was  a  throng  in  the  state-rooms  up  stairs,  increasing 
every  minute  ;  but  still  Mr.  Dombey's  list  of  visitors  appeared 
to  have  some  native  impossibility  of  amalgamation  with  Mrs, 
Dombey's  list,  and  no  one  could  have  doubted  which  was 
which.  The  single  exception  to  this  rule  perhaps  was  Mr, 
Carker,  who  now  smiled  among  the  company,  and  who,  as  he 
stood  in  the  circle  that  was  gathered  about  Mrs.  Dombey — 
watchful  of  her,  of  them,  his  chief,  Cleopatra  and  the  Major, 
Florence,  and  everything  around — appeared  at  ease  with  both 
divisions  of  guests,  and  not  marked  as  exclusively  belonging  to 
either. 

Florence  had  a  dread  of  him,  which  made  his  presence  in 
the  room  a  night-mare  to  her.  She  could  not  avoid  the  recol- 
lection of  it,  for  her  eyes  were  drawn  towards  him  every  now 
and  then,  by  an  attraction  of  dislike  and  distrust  that  she  could 
not  resist.  Yet  her  thoughts  were  busy  with  other  things  ;  for 
as  she  sat  apart — not  unadmired  or  unsought,  but  in  the  gentle- 
ness of  her  quiet  spirit — she  felt  how  little  part  her  father  had 
in  what  was  going  on,  and  saw,  with  pain,  how  ill  at  ease  he 
seemed  to  be,  and  how  little  regarded  he  was  as  he  lingered 
about  near  the  door,  for  those  visitors  whom  he  wished  to  dis- 
tinguish with  particular  attention,  and  took  them  up  to  intro- 


494  JJOMBEV  AND  SOAK 

duce  them  to  his  wife,  wlio  received  them  with  proud  coldness, 
but  showed  no  interest  or  wish  to  please,  and  never,  after  the 
bare  ceremony  of  reception,  in  consultation  of  his  wishes,  or  in 
•welcome  of  his  friends,  opened  her  lips.  It  was  not  the  less 
perplexing  or  painful  to  Florence,  that  she  who  acted  thus, 
treated  her  so  kindly  and  with  such  loving  consideration,  that 
it  almost  seemed  an  ungrateful  return  on  her  part  even  to  know 
of  what  was  passing  before  her  eyes. 

Happy  Florence  would  have  been,  might  she  have  ventured 
to  bear  her  father  company,  by  so  much  as  a  look  ;  and  happy 
Florence  was,  in  little  suspecting  the  main  cause  of  his  uneasi- 
ness. But  afraid  of  seeming  to  know  that  he  was  placed  at  any 
disadvantage,  lest  he  should  be  resentful  of  that  knowledge  ; 
and  divided  between  her  impulse  towards  him,  and  her  grateful 
affection  for  Edith ;  she  scarcely  dared  to  raise  her  eyes  to- 
wards either.  Anxious  and  unhappy  for  them  both,  the  thought 
stole  on  her  through  the  crowd,  that  it  might  have  been  better 
for  them  if  this  noise  of  tongues  and  tread  of  feet  had  never 
come  there, — if  the  old  dulness  and  decay  had  never  been  re- 
placed by  novelty  and  splendor, — if  the  neglected  child  had 
found  no  friend  in  Edith,  but  had  lived  her  solitary  life,  unpitied 
and  forgotten. 

Mrs.  Chick  had  some  such  thoughts  loo,  but  they  were  not 
so  quietly  developed  in  her  mind.  This  good  matron  had  been 
outraged  in  the  first  instance  by  not  receiving  an  invitation  to 
dinner.  That  blow  partially  recovered,  she  had  gone  to  a  vast 
expense  to  make  such  a  figure  before  Mrs.  Dombey  at  home, 
as  should  dazzle  the  senses  of  that  lady,  and  heap  mortification, 
mountains  high,  on  the  head  of  Mrs.  Skewton. 

*'  But  I  am  made,"  said  Mrs.  Chick  to  Mr.  Chick,  "  of  no 
more  account  than  Florence  !  Who  takes  the  smallest  notice 
of  me  ?    No  one  !  " 

"No  one,  my  dear,"  assented  Mr.  Chick,  who  was  seated 
by  the  side  of  Mrs. Chick  against  the  wall,  and  could  console 
himself,  even  there,  by  softly  whistling. 

"  Does  it  at  all  appear  as  if  I  was  wanted  here  1 "  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Chick,  with  dashing  eyes. 

"  No,  my  dear,  I  don't  think  it  does,"  said  Mr.  Chick. 

"  Paul's  mad  !  "  said  Mrs.  Chick. 

Mr.  Chick  whistled. 

"  Unless  you  are  a  monster,  which  I  sometimes  think  you 
are,"  said  Mrs.  Chick  with  candor,  "don't  sit  there  humming 
tunes.  How  any  one  with  the  most  distant  feelings  of  a  man, 
can  see  that  mother-in-law  of  Paul's,  dressed  as  she  is,  going  on 


HOUSE-WARMING.  tj^ 

like  chat,  with  Major  Bagstock,  for  whom,  among  other  precious 
tilings,  we  are  indebted  to  your  Lucretia  'J  ox — " 

"  My  Lucretia  Tox,  my  dear !  "  sa:d  Mr.  Chick,  astounded. 

"Yes,"  retorted  Mrs.  Chick,  with  great  severitj',  ^^ your 
Lucretia  Tox — I  say  how  anybody  can  see  that  mother-in  law 
of  Paul's,  and  that  haughty  wife  of  Paul's,  and  these  indecent 
old  frights  with  their  backs  and  shoulders,  and  in  short  this  at 
home  generally,  and  hum — ,"  on  which  word  Mrs.  Chick  laid  a 
scornful  emphasis  that  made  Mr.  Chick  start,  "  is,  I  thank 
Heaven,  a  mystery  to  me  !  " 

Mr.  Chick  screwed  his  mouth  into  a  form  irreconcilable  with 
humming  or  whistling,  and  looked  very  contemplative, 

"  But  I  hope  I  know  what  is  due  to  myself,"  said  Mrs. 
Chick,  swelling  with  indignation,  "  though  Paul  has  forgotten 
what  is  due  to  me.  I  am  not  going  to  sit  here,  a  member  o£ 
this  family,  to  be  taken  no  notice  of.  I  am  not  the  dirt  under 
Mrs.  Dombey's  feet,  yet — not  quite  yet,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  as  if 
she  expected  to  become  so,  about  the  day  after  to-morrow. 
"  And  I  shall  go.  I  will  not  say  (whatever  I  may  think)  that 
this  affair  has  been  got  up  solely  to  degrade  and  insult  me.  I 
shall  merely  go.     I  shall  not  be  missed  !  " 

Mrs.  Chick  rose  erect  with  these  words,  and  took  the  arm  of 
Mr.  Chick,  who  escorted  her  from  the  room,  after  an  half-hour's 
shady  sojourn  there.  And  it  is  due  to  her  penetration  to  ob- 
serve that  she  certainly  was  not  missed  at  all. 

But  she  was  not  the  only  indignant  guest ;  for  Mr.  Dom- 
bey's list  (still  constantly  in  difficulties)  were,  as  a  body,  indig- 
nant with  Mrs.  Dombey's  list,  for  looking  at  them  through  eye- 
glasses, and  audibly  wondering  who  all  those  people  were ; 
while  Mrs.  Dombey's  list  complained  of  weariness,  and  the 
young  thing  with  the  shoulders,  deprived  of  the  attentions  of 
that  gay  youth  Cousin  Feenix  (who  went  away  from  the  dinner- 
table),  confidentially  alleged  to  thirty  or  forty  friends  that  she 
was  bored  to  death.  All  the  old  ladies  with  the  burdens  on 
their  heads,  had  greater  or  less  cause  of  complaint  against  Mrs 
Dombey  ;  and  the  Directors  and  Chairmen  coincided  in  think- 
ing that  if  Dombey  must  marry,  he  had  better  have  married  some- 
body nearer  his  own  age,  not  quite  so  handsome,  and  a  little 
better  off.  The  general  opinion  among  this  class  of  gentlemen 
was,  that  it  was  a  weak  thing  in  Dombey,  and  he'd  live  to  re- 
pent it.  Hardly  anybody  there,  except  the  mild  men,  stayed, 
or  went  away,  without  considering  himself  or  herself  neglected 
and  aggrieved  by  Mr.  Dombey  or  Mrs.  Dombey ;  and  the 
speechless  female  in  the  black  velvet  hat  was  found  to  have 


496  DOMBEY  AND  SOhr. 

been  Stricken  mute,  because  the  lady  in  the  crimson  velvet  had 
been  handed  down  before  her.  The  nature  even  of  the  mild 
men  got  corrupted,  either  from  their  curdling  it  with  too  much 
lemonade,  or  from  the  general  inoculation  that  prevailed ;  and 
they  made  sarcastic  jokes  to  one  another,  and  whispered  dis- 
paragement on  stairs  and  in  bye-places.  The  general  dissatis- 
faction and  discomfort  so  diffused  itself,  that  the  assembled 
footmen  in  the  hall  were  as  well  acquainted  with  it  as  the  com- 
pany above.  Nay,  the  very  linkmen  outside  got  hold  of  it,  and 
compared  the  party  to  a  funeral  out  of  mourning,  with  none  of 
the  company  remembered  in  the  will. 

At  last,  the  guests  were  all  gone,  and  the  linkmen  too  ;  and 
the  street,  crowded  so  long  with  carriages,  was  clear ;  and  the 
dying  lights  showed  no  one  in  the  rooms,  but  Mr.  Dombey  and 
Mr.  Carker,  who  were  talking  together  apart,  and  Mrs.  Dombey 
and  her  mother  :  the  former  seated  on  an  ottoman  ;  the  latter 
reclining  in  the  Cleopatra  attitude,  awaiting  the  arrival  of  her 
maid.  Mr.  Dombey  having  finished  his  communication  to 
Carker,  the  latter  advanced  obsequiously  to  take  leave. 

"  I  trust,"  he  said,  "  that  the  fatigues  of  this  delightful  even- 
ing will  not  inconvenience  Mrs.  Dombey  to-morrow." 

"  Mrs.  Dombey,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  advancing,  "  has  sufh- 
ciently  spared  herself  fatigue,  to  relieve  you  from  any  anxiety 
of  that  kind.  I  regret  to  say,  Mrs.  Dombey,  that  I  could  have 
wished  you  had  fatigued  yourself  a  little  more  on  this  occa- 
sion." 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  supercilious  glance,  that  it  seemed 
not  worth  her  while  to  protract,  and  turned  away  her  eyes,  with- 
out speaking. 

"  I  am  sorry.  Madam,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "that  you  should 
not  have  thought  it  your  duty " 

She  looked  at  him  again. 

"  Your  duty,  Madam,"  pursued  Mr.  Dombey,  "  to  have  re- 
ceived my  friends  with  a  little  more  deference.  Some  of  those 
whom  you  have  been  pleased  to  slight  to-night  in  a  very  marked 
manner,  Mrs.  Dombey,  confer  a  distinction  upon  you,  I  must 
tell  you,  in  any  visit  they  pay  you." 

"  Do  you  know  that  there  is  some  one  here  ?  "  she  returned, 
now  looking  at  him  steadily. 

"  No  !  Carker !  I  beg  that  you  do  not,  I  insist  that  you 
do  not,"  cried  Mr.  Dombey,  stopping  that  noiseless  gentleman 
in  his  withdrawal.  "  Mr.  Carker,  Madam,  as  you  know,  pos- 
sesses my  confidence.  He  is  as  well  acquainted  as  myself  with 
the  subject  on  which  I  speak.     I  beg  to  tell  you,  for  your  infor- 


HOUSE-  WARMING. 


497 


mation,  Mrs.  Dombey,  that  I  consider  these  wealthy  and  impor- 
tant persons  confer  a  distinction  upon  me :''''  and  Mr.  Dombey 
drew  himself  up,  as  having  now  rendered  them  of  the  highest 
possible  importance. 

"  I  ask  you,"  she  repeated,  bending  her  disdainful,  steady 
gaze  upon  him,  "  do  you  know  that  there  is  some  one  here, 
^Sir  ?  " 

"  I  must  entreat,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  stepping  forward,  "  I 
most  beg,  I  must  demand,  to  be  released.  Slight  and  unimpor- 
tant as  this  difference  is — " 

Mrs.  Skewton,  who  had  been  intent  upon  her  daughter's 
face,  took  him  up  here. 

"  My  sweetest  Edith,''*  she  said,  "  and  my  dearest  Dombey  ; 
our  excellent  friend  Mr.  Carker,  for  so  I  am  sure  I  ought  to 
mention  him — " 

Mr.  Carker  murmured,  "  Too  much  honor." 

"  — has  used  the  very  words  that  were  in  my  mind,  and  that 
I  have  been  dying,  these  ages,  for  an  opportunity  of  intro- 
ducing. Slight  and  unimportant !  My  sweetest  Edith,  and  my 
dearest  Dombey,  do  we  not  know  that  any  difference  between 
you  two — No,  Flowers  ;  not  now." 

Flowers  was  the  maid,  who,  finding  gentlemen  present,  re- 
treated with  precipitation. 

"  That  any  difference  between  you  two,"  resumed  Mrs. 
Skewton,  "  with  the  Heart  you  possess  in  common,  and  the  ex- 
cessively charming  bond  of  feeling  that  there  is  between  you, 
must  be  slight  and  unimportant }  What  words  could  better  de- 
fine the  fact  ?  None.  Therefore  I  am  glad  to  take  this  slight 
occasion — this  trifling  occasion,  that  is  so  replete  with  Nature, 
and  your  individual  characters,  and  all  that — so  truly  calculated 
to  bring  the  tears  into  a  parent's  eyes — to  say  that  I  attach  no 
importance  to  them  in  the  least,  except  as  developing  these 
minor  elements  of  Soul  ;  and  that,  unlike  most  mamas-in-law 
(that  odious  phrase,  dear  Dombey  !)  as  they  have  been  repre- 
sented to  me  to  exist  in  this  I  fear  too  artificial  world,  I  never 
shall  attempt  to  interpose  between  you,  at  such  a  time,  and 
never  can  much  regret,  after  all,  such  little  flashes  of  the  torch 
of  What's-his-name — not  Cupid,  but  the  other  delightful  crea- 
ture." 

There  was  a  sharpness  in  the  good  mother's  glance  at  both 
her  children  as  she  spoke,  that  may  have  been  expressive  of  a 
direct  and  well  considered  purpose  hidden  between  these  ram- 
bling words.  That  purpose,  providently  to  detach  herself  in  the 
beginning  from  all  the  clankings  of  their  chain  that  were  to 


^^%  DOMBEY  AND  SO?^. 

come,  and  to  shelter  herself  with  the  fiction  of  her  innocent 
belief  in  their  mutual  affection,  and  their  adaptation  to  each 
other. 

"  I  have  pointed  out  to  Mrs.  Dombey,"  said  Mr.  Dombey, 
in  his  most  stately  manner,  "  that  in  her  conduct  thus  early  in 
our  married  life,  to  which  I  object,  and  which,  I  request,  may 
be  corrected.  Carker,"  with  a  nod  of  dismissal,  "good-night 
to  you ! " 

Mr,  Carker  bowed  to  the  imperious  form  of  the  Bride, 
whose  sparkling  eye  was  fixed  upon  her  husband  ;  and  stop- 
ping at  Cleopatra's  couch  on  his  way  out,  raised  to  his  lips  the 
hand  she  graciously  extended  to  him,  in  lowly  and  admiring 
homage. 

If  his  handsome  wife  had  reproached  him,  or  even  changed 
countenance,  or  broken  the  silence  in  which  she  remained,  by 
one  word,  now  that  they  were  alone  (for  Cleopatra  made  off 
with  all  speed),  Mr.  Dombey  would  liave  been  equal  to  some 
assertion  of  his  case  against  her.  But  the  intense,  unutterable, 
withering  scorn,  with  which,  after  looking  upon  him,  she 
dropped  her  eyes,  as  if  he  were  too  worthless  and  indifferent 
to  her  to  be  challenged  with  a  syllable — the  ineffable  disdain 
and  haughtiness  in  which  she  sat  before  him — the  cold  inflexi- 
ble resolve  with  which  her  every  feature  seemed  to  bear  hirn 
down,  and  put  him  by — these,  he  had  no  resource  against ;  and 
he  left  her,  with  her  whole  overbearing  beauty  concentrated 
on  despising  him. 

Was  he  coward  enough  to  watch  her,  an  hour  afterwards, 
on  the  old  well  staircase,  where  he  had  once  seen  Florence  in 
the  moonlight,  toiling  up  with  Paul  t  Or  was  he  in  the  dark 
by  accident,  when,  looking  up,  he  saw  her  coming,  with  a  light, 
from  the  room  where  Florence  lay,  and  marked  again  the  face 
so  changed,  which  he  could  not  subdue  ? 

But  it  could  never  alter  as  his  own  did.  It  never,  in  its  ut- 
most pride  and  passion,  knew  the  shadow  that  had  fallen  on 
his,  in  the  dark  corner,  on  the  night  of  the  return  ;  and  often 
since  ;  and  which  deepened  on  it  now  as  he  lookek  up. 


MORE  WARNINGS  THAN  ONE.  ^gg 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

MORE    WARNINGS    THAN    ONE. 

Florence,  Edith,  and  Mrs.  Skewton  were  together  next 
day,  and  the  carriage  was  waiting  at  the  door  to  take  them 
out.  For  Cleopatra  had  her  galley  again  now,  and  Withers, 
no  longer  the  wan,  stood  upright  in  a  pigeon-breasted  jacket 
and  military  trousers,  behind  her  wheel-less  chair  at  dinner- 
time, and  butted  no  more.  The  hair  of  Withers  was  radiant 
with  pomatum,  in  these  days  of  down,  and  he  wore  kid  gloves 
and  smelt  of  the  water  of  Cologne. 

They  were  assembled  in  Cleopatra's  room.  The  Serpent 
of  old  Nile  (not  to  mention  her  disrespectfully)  was  reposing 
on  her  sofa,  sipping  her  morning  chocolate  at  three  o'clock  in 
the  afternoon,  and  Flowers  the  Maid  was  fastening  on  her 
j'outhful  cuffs  and  frills,  and  performing  a  kind  of  private  cor- 
onation ceremony  on  her,  with  a  peach-colored  velvet  bonnet, 
the  artificial  roses  in  which  nodded  to  uncommon  advantage, 
as  the  palsy  trifled  with  them,  like  a  breeze. 

"  I  think  I  am  a  little  nervous  this  morning,  Flowers,"  said 
Mrs.  Skewton.     "  My  hand  quite  shakes." 

"  You  were  the  life  of  the  party  last  night,  Ma'am,  you 
know,"  returned  Flowers,  "and  you  suffer  for  it,  to-day,  you 
see." 

Edith,  who  had  beckoned  Florence  to  the  window,  and  was 
looking  out,  with  her  back  turned  on  the  toilet  of  her  esteemed 
mother,  suddenly  withdrew  from  it,  as  if  it  had  lightened. 

"  My  darling  child,"  cried  Cleopatra,  languidly,  '^  jou  are 
not  nervous  ?  Don't  tell  me,  my  dear  Edith,  that  you,  so  en- 
viably self-possessed,  are  beginning  to  be  a  martyr  too,  like 
your  unfortunately  constituted  mother  ?  Withers,  some  one  at 
the  door." 

"Card,  Ma'am,"  said  Withers,  taking  it  towards  Mrs.  Dom 
bey. 

"  I  am  going  out,"  she  said  without  looking  at  it. 

"  My  dear  love,"  drawled  Mrs.  Skewton,  "how  very  odd  to 
send  that  message  without  seeing  the  name  !  Bring  it  here, 
Withers.  Dear  me,  my  love ;  Mr.  Carker,  too !  That  very 
sensible  person  ! " 


500 


DOMBEV  AND  SON. 


"  I  am  going  out,"  repeated  Edith,  in  so  imperious  a  tone 
that  Withers,  going  to  the  door,  imperiously  informed  the  ser- 
vant who  was  waiting,  "  Mrs.  Dombcy  is  going  out.  Get  along 
with  you,"  and  shut  it  on  him. 

But  the  servant  came  back  after  a  short  absence,  and  whis- 
pered to  Withers  again,  who  once  more,  and  not  very  willingly, 
presented  himself  before  Mrs.  Dombey. 

"  If  you  please,  Ma'am,  Mr.  Carker  sends  his  respectful 
compliments,  and  begs  you  would  spare  him  one  minute,  if  you 
could — for  business,  Ma'am,  if  you  please." 

"  Really,  my  love,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton  in  her  mildest  man- 
ner ;  for  her  daughter's  face  was  threatening ;  "  if  you  would 
allow  me  to  offer  a  word,  I  should  recommend — " 

"  Show  him  this  way,"  said  Edith.  As  ^^'ithers  disappeared 
to  execute  the  command,  she  added,  frowning  on  her  mother, 
"  As  he  comes  at  your  recommendation,  let  him  come  to  your 
room." 

"  May  I — shall  I  go  away  ?  "  asked  Florence,  hurriedly. 

Edith  nodded  yes,  but  on  her  way  to  the  door  Florence 
met  the  visitor  coming  in.  With  the  same  disagreeable  mix- 
ture of  familiarity  and  forbearance  with  which  he  had  first 
addressed  her,  he  addressed  her  now  in  his  softest  manner^ 
hoped  she  was  quite  well — needed  not  to  ask,  with  such  looks 
to  anticipate  the  answer — had  scarcely  had  the  honor  to  know 
her,  last  night,  she  was  so  greatly  changed — and  held  the  door 
open  for  her  to  pass  out ;  with  a  secret  sense  of  power  in  her 
shrinking  from  him,  all  the  deference  and  politeness  of  his 
manner  could  not  quite  conceal. 

He  then  bowed  himself  for  a  moment  over  Mrs.  Skewton's 
condescending  hand,  and  lastly  bowed  to  Edith.  Coldly  re- 
turning his  salute  without  looking  at  him,  and  neither  seating 
herself  nor  inviting  him  to  be  seated,  she  waited  for  him  to 
speak. 

Entrenched  in  her  pride  and  power,  and  with  all  the  ob- 
duracy of  her  spirit  summoned  about  her,  still  her  old  convic- 
tion that  she  and  her  mother  had  been  known  by  this  man  in 
their  worst  colors,  from  their  first  acquaintance ;  that  every 
degradation  she  had  suiTered  in  her  own  eyes  was  as  plain  to 
him  as  to  herself;  that  he  read  her  life  as  though  it  were  a  vile 
book,  and  fluttered  the  leaves  before  her  in  slight  looks  and 
tones  of  voice  Avhich  no  one  else  could  detect ;  weakened  and 
undermined  her.  Proudly  as  she  opposed  herself  to  him  with 
her  commanding  face  exacting  his  humility,  her  disdainful 
lip  repulsing  him,  her  bosom  angry  at  his  intrusion,  and  the 


hlO/^l£  jrAA'A'/A'CS  TNAN  ONE.  ^oi 

\&.x\.  lashes  of  her  eyes  snllenly  veiling  their  light,  that  no  ray 
of  it  might  shine  upon  him — and  submissively  as  he  stood  be 
;<?re  her,  with  an  entreating  injured  manner,  but  with  complete 
submission  to  her  will — she  knew,  in  her  own  soul,  that  the 
cases  were  reversed,  and  that  the  triumph  and  superiority  were 
his,  and  that  he  knew  it  full  well. 

"I  have  presumed,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  "to  solicit  an  inter-, 
view,  and  I  have  ventured  to  describe  it  as  being  one  of  busi- 
ness, because — " 

"  Perhaps  you  are  charged  by  Mr.  Dombey  with  some- 
message  of  reproof,"  said  Edith.  "  You  possess  Mr.  Dombey 's 
confidence  in  such  an  unusual  degree,  Sir,  that  you  would 
scarcely  surprise  me  if  that  were  your  business." 

"  I  have  no  message  to  the  lady  who  sheds  a  lustre  upon 
his  name,"  said  Mr.  Carker.  "But  I  entreat  that  lady,  on  my 
own  behalf,  to  be  just  to  a  very  humble  claimant  for  justice  at 
her  hands — a  mere  dependent  of  Mr,  Dombey's — which  is  a 
position  of  humility ;  and  to  reflect  upon  my  perfect  helpless- 
ness last  night,  and  the  impossibility  of  my  avoiding  the  share 
that  was  forced  upon  me  in  a  very  painful  occasion." 

"  My  dearest  E^dith,"  hinted  Cleopatra  in  a  low  voice,  as 
she  held  her  eye-glass  aside,  "  really  very  charming  of  Mr. 
What's-his-name.     And  full  of  heart !  " 

"For  I  do,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  appealing  to  Mrs.  Skewton 
with  a  look  of  graceful  deference, — "  I  do  venture  to  call  it  a 
painful  occasion,  though  merely  because  it  was  so  to  me,  who 
had  the  misfortune  to  be  present.  So  slight  a  difference,  as 
between  the  principals — between  those  who  love  each  other 
with  disinterested  devotion,  and  would  make  any  sacrifice  of 
self,  in  such  a  cause — is  nothing.  As  Mrs.  Skewton  herself 
expressed,  with  so  much  truth  and  feeling  last  night,  it  is 
nothing. 

Edith  could  not  look  at  him,  but  she  said  after  a  few  mo- 
ments, 

"  And  )'Our  business.  Sir — " 

"  Edith  my  pet,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  "  all  this  time  Mr. 
Carker  is  standing!     My  dear  Mi.  Carker,  take  a  seat,  I  beg.'* 

He  offered  no  reply  to  the  mother,  but  fixed  his  eyes  on 
the  proud  daughter,  as  though  he  would  only  be  bidden  by  her, 
and  was  resolved  to  be  bidden  by  her.  Edith,  in  spite  of  her- 
self, sat  down,  and  slightly  motioned  with  her  hand  to  him  to 
be  seated  too.  No  action  could  be  colder,  haughtier,  more  in- 
solent in  its  air  of  supremacy  and  disrespect,  but  she  had 
Struggled  against  even  that  concession    ineffectually,  and  it 


^02  bOMBEV  AND  SON. 

was  wrested  from  her.  Tliat  was  enough  !  Mr.  Carker  sat 
clown. 

"  May  I  be  allowed,  Madam,"  said  Carker,  turning  his 
white  teeth  on  Mrs.  Skewton  like  a  light — "a  lady  of  your  ex- 
cellent sense  and  quick  feeling  will  give  me  credit,  for  good 
reason,  I  am  sure — to  address  what  1  have  to  say,  to  Mrs, 
Dombey,  and  to  leave  her  to  impart  it  to  you  who  are  her  best 
and  dearest  friend — next  to  Mr.  Dombey  ?  " 

Mrs.  Skewton  would  have  retired,  but  Edith  stopped  her. 
Edith  would  have  stopped  him  too,  and  indignantly  ordered 
liim  to  speak  openly  or  not  at  all,  but  that  he  said  in  a  low 
voice — "  Miss  Florence — the  young  lady  who  has  just  left  the 
room — " 

Edith  suffered  him  to  proceed.  She  looked  at  him  now. 
As  he  bent  forward,  to  be  nearer,  with  the  utmost  show  of 
delicacy  and  respect,  and  with  his  teeth  persuasively  arrayed, 
.'n  a  self-depreciating  smile,  she  felt  as  if  she  could  have  struck 
him  dead. 

"  Miss  Florence's  position,"  he  began,  "  has  been  an  unfor- 
tunate one.  I  have  a  difficulty  in  alluding  to  it  to  you,  whose 
attachment  to  her  father  is  naturally  watchful  and  jealous  of 
every  word  that  applies  to  him."  Always  distinct  and  soft  in 
speech,  no  language  could  describe  the  extent  of  his  distinct- 
ness and  softness,  when  he  said  these  words,  o^  came  to  any 
others  of  a  similar  import.  "  But,  as  one  who  is  devoted  to 
Air.  Dombey  in  his  dififerent  way  and  whose  life  is  passed  in 
admiration  of  Mr.  Dombey's  character,  may  I  say,  without 
offence  to  your  tenderness  as  a  wife,  that  Miss  Florence  has 
unhappily  been  neglected — by  her  father  }  May  I  say  by  her 
father  ? " 

Edith  replied,  "  I  know  it." 

"  You  know  it  !  "  said  Mr.  Carker,  with  a  great  appearance 
of  relief.  "  It  removes  a  mountain  from  my  breast.  May  I 
hope  you  know  how  the  neglect  originated  ;  in  what  an  amiable 
phase  of  Mr.  Dombey's  pride— character  I  mean  ?  " 

"  You  may  pass  that  by.  Sir,"  she  returned,  "  and  come  tlie 
sooner  to  the  end  of  what  you  have  to  say." 

"Indeed,  1  am  sensible,  Madam,"  replied  Carker, — "trust 
me,  I  am  deeply  sensible,  that  Mr.  Dombey  can  require  no  jus- 
tification in  anything  to  you.  But,  kindly  judge  of  my  breast 
by  your  own,  and  you  will  forgive  my  interest  in  him,  if  in  its 
excess,  it  goes  at  all  astray." 

What  a  stab  to  licr  prouil  henrt,  to  sit  there,  face  to  face 
with  him,  and  have  hiai  tendering  her  false  oath  at  the  altar 


MORE  WARNINGS  TIT  AX  ONE.  503 

again  and  again  for  her  acceptance,  and  pressing  it  upon  her 
like  the  dregs  ol:  a  sickening  cup  she  could  not  own  her  loath 
Ing  of,  or  turn  away  from  !  How  shame,  remorse,  and  passion 
raged  within  her,  when,  upright  and  majestic  in  her  beauty  be- 
fore him,  she  knew  that  in  her  spirit  she  was  down  at  his  feet  I 

"  Miss  Florence,"  said  Carker,  "  left  to  the  care — if  one 
may  call  it  care — of  servants  and  mercenary  people,  m  every 
way  her  inferiors,  necessarily  wanted  some  guide  and  compass 
in  her  younger  days,  and,  naturally,  for  want  of  them,  has  been 
indiscreet,  a"nd  has  in  some  degree  forgotten  her  station.^  There 
was  some  folly  about  one  Walter,  a  common  lad,  who  is  fortu- 
nately dead  now  :  and  some  very  undesirable  association,  I  re- 
gret to  say,  with  certain  coasting  sailors,  of  anything  but  good 
repute,  and  a  runaway  old  bankrupt." 

"  I  have  heard  the  circumstances.  Sir,"  said  Edith,  flashing 
her  disdainful  glance  upon  him,  "  and  I  know  that  you  pervert 
them.     You  may  not  know  it,  I  hope  so." 

"  Pardon  me,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  ''  I  believe  that  nobody 
knows  them  so  well  as  I.  Your  generous  and  ardent  nature, 
Madam — the  same  nature  which  is  so  nobly  imperative  in  vin- 
dication of  your  beloved  and  honored  husband,  and  which  has 
blessed  him  as  even  his  merits  deserve — I  must  respect,  defer 
to,  bow  before.  But,  as  regards  the  circumstances,  which  is 
indeed  the  business  I  presumed  to  solicit  your  attention  to,  1 
can  have  no  doubt,  since,  in  the  execution  of  my  trust  as  Mr. 
Dombey's  confidential — I  presume  to  say — friend,  I  have  fully 
ascertained  them.  In  my  execution  of  that  trust ;  in  my  deep 
concern,  which  you  can  so  well  understand,  for  ever}'thing  re- 
lating to  him,  intensified,  if  you  will  (for  I  fear  I  labor  under 
your  displeasure),  by  the  lower  motive  of  desire  to  prove  my 
diligence,  and  make  myself  the  more  acceptable  ;  I  have  long 
pursued  these  circumstances  by  myself  and  trustworthy  instru- 
ments, and  have  innumerable  and  most  minute  proofs." 

She  raised  her  eyes  no  higher  than  his  mouth,  but  she  saw 
the  means  of  mischief  vaunted  in  every  tooth  it  contained. 

"Pardon  me.  Madam,"  he  continued,  "  if  in  my  perplexity, 
I  presume  to  take  counsel  with  you,  and  to  consult  your  pleas- 
ure. I  think  I  have  observed  that  you  are  greatly  interested 
in  Miss  Florence  ?  " 

What  was  there  in  her  he  had  not  observed,  and  did  not 
know  !  Humbled  and  yet  maddened  by  the  thought,  in  every 
new  presentment,  of  it,  however  faint,  she  pressed  her  teeth 
upon  her  quivering  lip  to  force  composure  on  it,  and  distantly 
inclined  her  head  m  reply. 


504 


DOME EY  AND  SON. 


"  This  interest,  Madam — so  touching  an  evidence  of  evcrjt 
thing  associated  with  Mr.  Domboy  being  dear  to  you — induces 
me  to  pause  before  I  make  him  acquainted  with  these  circum- 
stances, which,  as  yet,  he  does  not  know.  It  so  far  shakes  me, 
if  I  may  make  the  confession,  in  my  allegiance,  that  on  the  in- 
timation of  the  least  desire  to  that  effect  from  you,  I  would 
suppress  them." 

Edith  raised  her  head  quickly,  and  starting  back,  bent  her 
dark  glance  upon  him.  lie  met  it  with  his  blandest  and  ii\ost 
deferential  smile,  and  went  on. 

"  You  say  that  as  I  describe  them,  they  are  perverted.  1 
fear  not — I  fear  not :  but  let  us  assume  that  they  are.  The 
uneasiness  I  have  for  some  time  felt  on  the  subject,  arises  in 
this  :  that  the  mere  circumstance  of  such  association  often  re- 
peated, on  the  part  of  Miss  Florence,  however  innocently  and 
confidingly,  would  be  conclusive  with  Mr.  Dombey,  already 
predisposed  against  her ;  and  would  lead  him  to  take  some  step 
(I  know  he  has  occasionally  contemplated  it)  of  separation  and 
alienation  of  her  from  his  home.  Madam,  bear  with  me,  and 
remember  my  intercourse  with  Mr.  Dombey,  and  my  knowledge 
of  him,  and  my  reverence  for  him,  almost  from  childhood,  when 
1  say  that  if  he  has  a  fault,  it  is  a  lofty  stubbornness,  rooted  in 
that  noble  pride  and  sense  of  power  which  belong  to  him,  and 
which  we  must  all  defer  to  ;  which  is  not  assailable  like  the 
obstinacy  of  others  characters  ;  and  which  grows  upon  itself 
from  day  to  day,  and  year  to  year." 

She  bent  her  glance  upon  him  still  ;  but,  look  as  steadfast 
as  she  would,  her  haughty  nostrils  dilated,  and  her  breath  came 
somewhat  deeper,  and  her  lip  would  slightly  curl,  as  he  de- 
scribed that  in  his  patron  to  which  they  must  all  bow  down. 
He  saw  it  ;  and  though  his  expression  did  not  change,  she 
knew  he  saw  it. 

"  Even  so  slight  an  incident  as  last  night's,"  he  said,  "  if  I 
might  refer  to  it  once  more,  would  serve  to  illustrate  my  mean- 
ing, better  than  a  greater  one.  Dombey  and  Son  know  neither 
time,  nor  place,  nor  season,  but  bear  them  all  down.  But  I 
rejoice  in  its  occurrence,  for  it  has  opened  the  way  for  me  to 
approach  Mrs.  Dombey  with  this  subject  to-day,  even  if  it  has 
entailed  upon  me  the  penalty  of  her  temporary  displeasure. 
Madam,  in  the  midst  of  my  uneasiness  and  apprehension  on 
this  subject,  I  was  summoned  by  Mr.  Dombey  to  Leamington. 
There  I  saw  you.  There  I  could  not  help  knowing  what 
relation  you  would  shortly  occupy  towards  him — to  his  endur- 
ing happiness  and  yours.    There  I  resolved  to  await  the  time 


MORE  WARNINGS  THAN  ONE. 


i^i 


of  your  establishment  at  home  here,  and  to  do  as  I  have  now 
done.  I  have,  at  heart,  no  fear  that  I  shall  be  wanting  in  my 
duty  to  Mr.  Dombey,  if  I  bury  what  I  know  in  your  breast ;  for 
where  there  is  but  one  heart  and  mind  between  two  persons — 
as  in  such  a  marriage — one  almost  represents  the  other,  \ 
can  acquit  my  conscience  therefore,  almost  equally,  by  con- 
fidence, on  such  a  theme,  in  you  or  him.  For  the  reasons  1 
have  mentioned  I  would  select  you.  May  I  aspire  to  the  dis- 
tinction of  believing  that  my  confidence  is  accepted,  and  that  I 
am  relieved  from  my  responsibility  ?  " 

He  long  remembered  the  look  she  gave  him — who  could  see 
it,  and  forget  it  ? — and  the  struggle  that  ensued  within  her.  At 
last  sh£  said  : 

"  I  accept  it,  Sir.  You  will  please  to  consider  this  matter 
at  an  end,  and  that  it  goes  no  farther." 

He  bowed  low,  and  rose.  She  rose  too,  and  he  took  leave 
with  all  humility.  But  Withers,  meeting  him  on  the  stairs, 
stood  amazed  at  the  beauty  of  his  teeth,  and  at  his  brilliant 
smile  •  and  as  he  rode  away  upon  his  white-legged  horse,  the 
people  took  him  for  a  dentist,  such  was  the  dazzling  show  he 
made.  The  people  took  her,  when  she  rode  out  in  her  carriage 
presently  for  a  great  lady,  as  happy  as  she  was  rich  and  fine. 
But  they  had  not  seen  her,  just  before,  in  her  own  room  with 
no  one  by  ;  and  they  had  not  heard  her  utterance  of  the  three 
words,  "  Oh  Florence,  Florence  !  " 

Mrs.  Skewton,  reposing  on  her  sofa,  and  sipping  her  choco- 
late, had  heard  nothing  but  the  low  word  business,  for  which 
she  had  a  mortal  aversion,  insomuch  that  she  had  long  ban- 
ished it  from  her  vocabulary,  and  had  gone  nigh  in  a  charming 
manner  and  with  an  immense  amount  of  heart,  to  say  nothing 
of  soul,  to  ruin  divers  milliners  and  others  in  consequence. 
Therefore  Mrs.  Skewton  asked  no  questions,  and  showed  no 
curiosity.  Indeed,  the  peach-velvet  bonnet  gave  her  sufficient 
occupation  out  of  doors  ;  for  being  perched  on  the  back  of  her 
head,  and  the  day  being  rather  windy,  it  was  frantic  to  escape 
from  Mrs.  Skewton's  company,  and  would  be  coaxed  into  no 
sort  o/  compromise.  When  the  carriage  was  closed,  and  the 
wind  shut  out,  the  palsy  played  among  the  artificial  roses  again 
like  an  almshouse-full  of  superannuated  zephyrs ;  and  alto- 
gether Mrs.  Skewton  had  enough  to  do,  and  got  on  but  in- 
differently. 

She  got  on  no  better  towards  night :  for  when  Mrs.  Dombey, 
in  her  dressing-room,  had  been  dressed  and  waiting  for  her  half 
an  hour,  and  Mr.  Dombey,  in  the  drawing-room,  had  paraded 


e^oC  DOMBE\'  AXD  ^OiW 

himself  into  a  state  of  solemn  frelfulness  (they  were  all  three 
going  out  to  dinner),  Flowers  the  Alaid  appeared  with  a  pale 
face  to  Mrs.  Dombey,  saying : 

"  If  you  please,  Ma'am,  I  beg  your  pardon,  but  I  can't  do 
nothing  with  Missis  !  " 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  asked  Edith. 

"  Well,  Ma'am,"  replied  the  frightened  maid,  "  I  hardly 
know.     She's  making  faces  !  " 

Edith  hurried  with  her  to  her  mother's  room.  Cleopatra  was 
arrayed  in  full  dress,  with  the  diamonds,  short-sleeves,  rouge, 
curls,  teeth,  and  other  juvenility  all  complete  ;  but  Paralysis 
was  not  to  be  deceived,  had  known  her  for  the  object  of  its 
errand,  and  had  struck  her  at  her  glass,  where  she  lay  like  a 
horrible  doll  that  had  tumbled  down. 

They  took  her  to  pieces  in  very  shame,  and  put  the  little  of 
her  that  was  real  on  a  bed.  Doctors  were  sent  for,  and  soon 
came.  Powerful  remedies  were  resorted  to  ;  opinions  given 
that  she  would  rally  from  this  shock,  but  would  not  survive 
another ;  and  there  she  lay  speechless,  and  staring  at  the 
ceiling  for  daj^s ;  sometimes  making  inarticulate  sounds  in 
answer  to  such  questions  as  did  she  know  who  were  present, 
and  the  like  :  sometimes  giving  no  reply  either  by  sign  or 
gesture,  or  in  her  unwinking  eyes. 

At  length  she  began  to  recover  consciousness,  and  in  some 
degree  the  power  of  motion,  though  not  yet  of  speech.  One 
day  the  use  of  her  right  hand  returned  ;  and  showing  it  to  hei 
maid  who  was  in  attendance  on  her,  and  appearing  very 
uneasy  in  her  mind,  she  made  signs  for  a  pencil  and  some 
paper.  This  the  maid  immediately  provided,  thinking  she  was 
going  to  make  a  will,  or  write  some  last  request ;  and  Mrs. 
Dombey  being  from  home,  the  maid  awaited  the  result  with 
solemn  feelings. 

After  much  painful  scrawling  and  erasing,  and  putting  in  of 
wrong  characters,  which  sceniL-d  to  tumble  out  of  the  pencil  of 
their  own  accord,  the  old  woman  produced  this  document : 

"  Rose-colored  curtains." 

The  maid  being  perfectly  transfixed,  and  with  tolerable 
reason,  Cleopatra  amended  the  manuscript  by  adding  two  words 
more,  when  it  stood  thus : 

"  Rose-colored  curtains  for  doctors." 

The  maid  now  perceived  remotely  that  she  wished  these 
articles  to  be  ]>rovided  for  the  better  presentation  of  her  com- 
plexion to  the  faculty  ;  and  as  those  in  the  house  who  knev/  her 
best,  had  no  doubt  of  the  correctness  of  this  opinion,  which  she 


MOkE  WARiVlNCS  THAM  ONE.  507 

was  soon  able  to  establish  for  herself,  the  rose-colored  curtains 
were  added  to  her  bed,  and  she  mended  with  increased  rapidity 
from  that  hour.  She  was  soon  able  to  sit  up,  in  curls  and  a 
laced  cap  and  night-gown,  and  to  have  a  little  artificial  bloom 
dropped  into  the  hollow  caverns  of  her  cheeks. 

It  was  a  tremendous  sight  to  see  this  old  woman  in  her 
finery  leering  and  mincing  at  Death,  and  playing  off  her  youth- 
ful tricks  upon  him  as  if  he  had  been  the  Major;  but  an 
alteration  in  her  mind  that  ensued  on  the  paralytic  stroke  was 
fraught  with  as  much  matter  for  reflection,  and  was  quite  as 
ghastly. 

Whether  the  weakening  of  her  intellect  made  her  more 
cunning  and  false  than  before,  or  whether  it  confused  her  be- 
tween what  she  had  assumed  to  be  and  what  she  really  had 
heen,  or  whether  it  had  awakened  any  glimmering  of  remorse, 
which  could  neither  struggle  into  light  nor  get  back  into  total 
darkness,  or  whether,  in  the  jumble  of  her  faculties,  a  com- 
bination of  these  effects  had  been  shaken  up,  which  is  perhaps 
the  more  likely  supposition,  the  result  was  this  : — That  she  be- 
came hugely  exacting  in  respect  of  Edith's  affection  and  gra- 
titude and  attention  to  her ;  highly  laudatory  of  herself  as  a 
most  inestimable  parent ;  and  very  jealous  of  having  any  rival 
in  Edith's  regard.  Further,  in  place  of  remembering  that  com- 
pact made  between  them  for  an  avoidance  of  the  subject,  she 
constantly  alluded  to  her  daughter's  marriage  as  a  proof  of  her 
being  an  incomparable  mother  :  and  all  this,  with  the  weakness 
and  peevishness  of  such  a  state,  always  serving  for  a  sarcastic 
commentary  on  her  levity  and  youthfulness. 

"Where  is  Mrs.  Dombey  ? "  she  would  say  to  her  maid. 

"  Gone  out,  Ma'am." 

"  Gone  out !  Does  she  go  out  to  shun  her  mama, 
Flowers .''  " 

"La  bless  you,  no  Ma'am.  Mrs.  Dombey  has  only  gone 
out  for  a  ride  with  Miss  Florence." 

"  Miss  Florence.  Who's  Miss  Florence  ?  Don't  tell  me 
about  Miss  Florence.  What's  Miss  Florence  to  her,  compared 
to  me  ? " 

The  apposite  display  of  the  diamonds,  or  the  peach-velvet 
bonnet  (she  sat  in  the  bonnet  to  receive  visitors,  weeks  before 
she  could  stir  out  of  doors),  or  the  dressing  of  her  up  in  some 
gaud  or  other,  usually  stopped  the  tears  that  began  to  flow 
hereabouts  ;  and  she  would  remain  in  a  complacent  state  until 
Edith  came  to  see  her ;  when,  at  a  glance  of  the  proud  face,  she 
would  relapse  again. 


5oS  bOMBEV  AND  S;ON. 

"Well,  I  am  sure,  Edith!"  she  would  cry,  shaking  hef 
head. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  mother  ?  " 

"  Matter  !  I  really  don't  know  what  is  the  matter.  The 
world  is  coming  to  such  an  artificial  and  ungrateful  state,  that 
1  begin  to  think  there's  no  Heart — or  anything  of  that  sort — 
left  in  it,  positively.  Withers  is  more  a  child  to  me  than  you 
are.  He  attends  to  me  much  more  than  my  own  daughter.  I 
almost  wish  I  didn't  look  so  young — and  all  that  kind  of  thing 
— and  then  perhaps  I  should  be  more  considered." 

"  What  would  you  have,  mother  ?  " 

"  Oh,  a  great  deal,  Edith,"  impatiently. 

"Is  there  anything  you  want  that  you  have  not  ?  It  is  your 
own  fault  if  there  be." 

"  My  own  fault  !  "  beginning  to  whimper.  "  The  parent  t 
have  been  to  you,  Edith  :  making  you  a  companion  from  your 
cradle  !  And  when  you  neglect  me,  and  have  no  more  natural 
affection  for  me  than  if  I  was  a  stranger — not  a  twentieth  part 
of  the  affection  that  you  have  for  Florence — but  I  am  only 
your  mother,  and  should  corrupt  her  in  a  day  ! — you  reproach 
me  with  its  being  my  own  fault." 

"  Mother,  mother,  I  reproach  you  with  nothing.  Why  will 
you  always  dwell  on  this  ?  " 

"  Isn't  it  natural  that  I  should  dwell  on  this,  when  I  am  all 
affection  and  sensitiveness  and  am  wounded  in  the  crudest 
way,  whenever  you  look  at  me  ? " 

"  I  do  not  mean  to  wound  you,  mother.  Have  you  no  re- 
membrance of  what  has  been  said  between  us  ?  Let  the  Past 
rest." 

"  Yes,  rest !  And  let  gratitude  to  me  rest  ;  and  let  afifec- 
tion  for  me  rest ;  and  let  me  rest  in  my  out-of-the  way  room, 
with  no  society  and  no  attention,  while  you  find  new  relations 
to  make  much  of,  who  have  no  earthly  claim  upon  you  !  Good 
gracious,  Mith,  do  you  know  what  an  elegant  establishment 
you  are  at  the  head  of  ?  " 
"Yes,  Hush !" 

•'  And  that  gentlemanly  creature,  Dombey  ?  Do  you  know 
that  you  are  married  to  him,  Edith,  and  that  you  have  a  settle- 
ment, and  a  position,  and  a  carriage,  and  I  don't  know  what  ?  " 

'''■  Indeed,  I  know  it,  mother  ;  well." 

"  As  you  would  have  had  with  that  delightful  good  soul — • 
what  did  they  call  him  ? — Granger — if  he  hadn't  died.  And 
■who  have  you  to  thank  for  all  this,  Edith  ?  " 

"You  mother;  you." 


MISS  TOX  IMPROVES  AN  OLD  ACQUAINTANCE.     509 

"  Then  put  your  arms  round  my  neck,  and  kiss  me  ;  and 
show  me,  Edith,  that  you  know  there  never  was  a  better  mama 
than  I  have  been  to  you.  And  don't  let  me  become  a  perfect 
fright  with  teasing  and  wearing  myself  at  your  ingratitude,  or 
when  I'm  out  again  in  society  no  soul  will  know  me,  not  even 
that  hateful  animal,  the  Major." 

But,  sometimes,  when  Edith  went  nearer  to  her,  and  bend- 
ing down  her  stately  head,  put  her  cold  cheek  to  hers,  the 
mothe-r  would  draw  back  as  if  she  were  afraid  of  her,  and  would 
fall  into  a  fit  of  trembling,  and  cry  out  that  there  was  a  wan- 
dering in  her  wits.  And  sometimes  she  would  entreat  her, 
with  humility,  to  sit  down  on  the  chair  beside  her  bed,  and 
would  look  at  her  (as  she  sat  there  brooding)  with  a  face 
that  even  the  rose-colored  curtains  could  not  make  otherwise 
than  seared  and  wild. 

The  rose-colored  curtains  blushed,  in  course  of  time,  on 
Cleopatra's  bodily  recovery,  and  on  her  dress — more  juvenile 
than  ever  to  repair  the  ravages  of  illness — and  on  the  rouge, 
and  on  the  teeth,  and  on  the  curls,  and  on  the  diamonds,  and 
the  short  sleeves,  and  the  whole  wardrobe  of  the  doll  that  had 
tumbled  down  before  the  mirror.  They  blushed,  too,  now  and 
then,  upon  an  indistinctness  in  her  speech  which  she  turned  ofiE 
with  a  girlish  giggle,  and  on  an  occasional  failing  in  her  mem- 
ory, that  had  no  rule  in  it,  but  came  and  went  fastastically,  as 
if  in  mockery  of  her  fantastic  self. 

But  they  never  blushed  upon  a  change  in  the  new  manner 
of  her  thought  and  speech  towards  her  daughter.  And  though 
that  daughter  often  came  within  their  influence,  they  never 
blushed  upon  her  loveliness  irradiated  by  a  smile,  or  softened 
by  the  light  of  filial  love,  in  its  stern  beauty. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

MISS  TOX  IMPROVES  AN  OLD  ACQUAINTANCE. 

The  forlorn  Miss  Tox,  abandoned  by  her  friend  Louis* 
Chick,  and  bereft  of  Mr.  Dombey's  countenance — for  no  deli- 
cate pair  of  wedding  cards,  united  by  a  silver  thread,  graced 
the  chimney-glass  in  Princess's  Place,  or  the  harpsichord,  or 
any  of  those  little  posts  of  display  which  Lucretia  reserved  for 
fepliday  occupation — became  depressed  in  her  spirits,  and  §vif' 


- 1  o  DOMDE  V  AND  SON 

fered  much  from  melanclioly.  For  a  time  tlie  Bird  Waltz  was 
unheard  in  Princess's  Phice,  the  plants  were  neglected,  and  dust 
collected  on  the  miniature  of  Miss  Tox's  ancestor  with  the 
powdered  head  and  pigtail. 

Miss  Tox,  however,  was  not  of  an  age  or  of  a  disposition 
long  to  aljandon  herself  to  unavailing  regrets.  Only  two  notes 
of  tlie  harpsichord  were  dumb  from  disuse  when  the  Bird  Waltz 
again  warbled  and  trilled  in  the  crooked  drawing-room  :  only 
one  slip  of  geranium  fell  a  victim  to  imperfect  nursing,  before 
she  was  gardening  at  her  green  baskets  again,  regularly  every 
morning  ;  the  powdered-headed  ancestor  had  not  been  under  a 
cloud  for  more  than  six  weeks,  when  Miss  Tox  breathed  on  his 
benignant  visage,  and  polished  him  up  with  a  piece  of  wash- 
leather. 

Still,  Miss  Tox  was  lonely,  and  at  a  loss.  Her  attachments, 
however  ludicrously  shown,  were  real  and  strong ;  and  she  >nas, 
as  she  expressed  it,  "  deeply  hurt  by  the  unmerited  contumely 
she  had  met  with  from  Louisa."  But  there  was  no  such  thmg 
as  anger  in  Miss  Tox's  composition.  If  she  had  ambled  on 
through  life,  in  her  soft-spoken  way,  without  any  opinions,  she 
had,  at  least,  got  so  far  without  any  harsh  passions.  The  mere 
sight  of  Louisa  Chick  in  the  street  one  day,  at  a  considerable 
distance,  so  overpowered  her  milky  nature,  that  she  was  fain  to 
seek  immediate  refuge  in  a  pastrycook's,  and  there,  in  a  musty 
little  back  room  usually  devoted  to  the  consumption  of  soups, 
and  pervaded  by  an  ox-tail  atmosphere,  relieve  her  feelings  by 
weeping  plentifully. 

Against  Mr.  Dombey  Miss  Tox  hardly  felt  that  she  had  any 
reason  of  complaint.  Her  sense  of  that  gentleman's  magnif- 
icence was  such,  that  once  removed  from  him,  she  felt  as  if  her 
distance  always  had  been  immeasurable,  and  as  if  he  had 
greatly  condescended  in  tolerating  her  at  all.  No  wife  could 
be  too  handsome  or  too  stately  for  him,  according  to  Miss 
Tox's  sincere  opinion.  It  was  perfectly  natural  that  in  looking 
for  one,  he  should  look  high.  Miss  Tox  with  tears  laid  down 
this  proposition,  and  fully  admitted  it,  twenty  times  a  day. 
She  never  recalled  the  lofty  manner  in  which  Mr.  Dombey  had 
made  her  subservient  to  his  convenience  and  caprices,  and  had 
graciously  permitted  her  to  be  one  of  the  nurses  of  his  little 
son.  She  only  thought,  in  her  own  words,  "  that  she  liad 
passed  a  great  many  happy  hours  in  that  house,  which  she 
must  ever  remember  with  gratification,  and  that  she  could 
never  cease  to  regard  Mr.  Dombey  as  onq  of  the  most  impres- 
sive and  dignified  of  mej>" 


Miss  tox  improvrs  an  old  ACQcrAiNTAiVci:. 


S^t 


Cut  off,  however,  from  the  implacable  Louisa,  and  being 
shy  of  the  Major  (whom  she  viewed  with  some  distrust  now), 
Miss  Tox  found  it  very  irksome  to  know  nothing  of  what  was 
going  on  in  Mr.  Dombey's  establishment.  And  as  she  really 
had  got  into  the  habit  of  considering  Dombey  and  Son  as  the 
pivot  on  which  the  world  in  general  turned,  she  resolved,  rather 
than  be  ignorant  of  intelligence  which  so  strongly  interested 
her,  to  cultivate  her  old  acquaintance,  Mrs.  Richards,  who  she 
knew,  since  her  last  memorable  appearance  before  Mr.  Dom 
bey,  was  in  the  habit  of  sometimes  holding  communication  with 
his  servants.  Perhaps  Miss  Tox,  in  seeking  out  the  Toodle 
family,  had  the  tender  motive  hidden  in  her  breast  of  having 
somebody  to  whom  she  could  talk  about  Mr.  Dombey,  no  mat- 
ter how  humble  that  somebody  might  be. 

At  all  events,  towards  the  Toodle  habitation  Miss  Tox 
directed  her  steps  one  evening,  what  time  Mr.  Toodle,  cindery 
and  swart,  was  refreshing  himself  with  tea,  in  the  bosom  of  his 
family.  Mr.  Toodle  had  only  three  stages  of  existence.  He 
was  either  taking  refreshment  in  the  bosom  just  mentioned,  or 
he  was  tearing  through  the  country  at  from  twenty-five  to  fifty 
miles  an  hour,  or  he  was  sleeping  after  his  fatigues.  He  was 
always  in  a  whirlwind  or  a  calm,  and  a  peaceable,  contented, 
easy-going  man  Mr.  Toodle  was  in  either  state,  who  seemed 
to  have  made  over  all  his  own  inheritance  of  fuming  and  fret- 
ting to  the  engines  with  which  he  was  connected,  which  panted, 
and  gasped,  and  chafed,  and  wore  themselves  out,  in  a  most 
unsparing  manner,  while  Mr.  Toodle  led  a  mild  and  equable 
life. 

"  Polly,  my  gal,"  said  Mr.  Toodle,  with  a  young  Toodle  on 
each  knee,  and  two  more  making  tea  for  him,  and  plenty  more 
scattered  about — Mr.  Toodle  was  never  out  of  children,  but 
always  kept  a  good  supply  on  hand — "  You  an't  seen  our  Bilei 
lately,  have  you  .''  " 

'_'  No,"  replied  Polly,  "  but  he's  almost  certain  to  look  in 
to-night.     It's  his  right  evening,  and  he's  very  regular." 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Mr.  Toodle,  relishing  his  meal  infinitely, 
"  as  our  Biler  is  a  doin'  now  about  as  well  as  a  bov  can  do  eh- 
Polly.?" 

"  Oh  !  he's  a  doing  beautiful !  "  responded  Polly. 

"  He  an't  got  to  be  at  all  secret-like— has  he,  Polly.?"  in- 
quired Mr.  Toodle. 

"  No  !  "  said  Mrs.  Toodle,  plumply. 

"I'm  glad  he  an't  got  to  be  at  all  secret-like.  Polly."  ©b- 
lervec  Mr.  Toodle  in  his  slow  and  measured  way,  and  3hovw> 


512 


DOMIiEV  AXJ)  SOX. 


ling  in  his  bread  and  butter  with  a  clasp  knife,  as  if  he  were 
stoking  himself,  "because  that  don't  .ookwell;  do  it,  Polly?" 

"  Why,  of  course  it  don't,  father.     How  can  you  ask  ? " 

"  You  see,  my  boys  and  gals,"  said  Mr.  Toodle,  looking 
round  upon  his  family,  "  wotever  you're  up  to  in  a  honest  way 
it's  my  opinion  as  you  can't  do  better  than  be  open.  If  you 
find  yourselves  in  cuttings  or  in  tunnels,  don't  you  play  no 
secret  game.  Keep  your  whistles  going,  and  let's  know  where 
you  are." 

The  rising  Toodles  set  up  a  shrill  murmur,  expressive  of 
their  resolution  to  profit  by  the  paternal  advice. 

"  But  what  makes  you  say  this  along  of  Rob,  father  ? " 
asked  his  wife,  anxiously. 

"  Polly,  old  'ooman,"  said  Mr.  Toodle,  "  I  don't  know  as  I 
said  it  partickler  along  o'  Rob,  I'm  sure.  I  starts  light  with 
Rob  only  ;  I  comes  to  a  branch  ;  I  takes  on  what  I  finds  there  ; 
and  a  whole  train  of  ideas  gets  coupled  on  to  him,  afore  I 
knows  where  I  am,  or  where  they  comes  from.  What  a  Junc- 
tion a  man's  thoughts  is,"  said  Mr.  Toodle,  "  to-be-sure  !  "_ 

This  profound  reflection  Mr.  Toodles  washed  down  with  a 
pint  mug  of  tea,  and  proceeded  to  solidify  with  a  great  weight 
of  bread  and  butter  ;  charging  his  young  daughters  meanwhile, 
to  keep  plenty  of  hot  water  in  the  pot,  as  he  was  uncommon 
dry,  and  should  take  the  indefinite  quantity  of  "  a  sight  of 
mugs,"  before  his  thirst  was  appeased. 

In  satisfying  himself,  however,  Mr.  Toodle  was  not  regard- 
less of  the  younger  branches  about  him,  who,  although  they 
had  made  their  own  evening  repast,  were  on  the  look-out  for 
irregular  morsels,  as  possessing  a  relish.  These  he  distributed 
now  and  then  to  the  expectant  circle,  by  holding  out  great 
wedges  of  bread  and  butter,  to  be  bitten  at  by  the  family  in 
lawful  succession,  and  by  serving  out  small  doses  of  tea  in  like 
manner  with  a  spoon  ;  which  snacks  had  such  a  relish  in  the 
mouths  of  these  young  Toodles,  that,  after  partaking  of  the 
same,  they  performed  private  dances  of  ecstacy  among  them- 
selves, and  stood  on  one  leg  a  piece,  and  hopped,  and  indulged 
in  other  saltatory  tokens  of  gladness.  These  vents  for  their 
excitement  found,  tlicy  gradually  closed  about  Mr.  Toodle 
again,  and  eyed  him  hard  as  he  got  through  more  bread  and 
butter  and  tea  ;  affecting,  however,  to  have  no  further  expec- 
tations of  their  own  in  reference  to  those  viands,  but  to  be  con- 
versing on  fopeign  subjects,  and  whispering  confidentially. 

Mr.  Toodle,  in  the  midst  of  this  family  group,  and  setting 
jin  awful  example  to   his  children  in  the  way  of  aopetite  wis 


Miss  TOX  IMPROVES  Ai\  OLD  ACQUAINTANCE.      313 

conveying  the  two  young  Toodles  on  his  knees  to  Birmingham 
by  special  engine,  and  was  contemplating  the  rest  over  a  bar- 
rier of  bread  and  butter,  when  Rob  the  Grinder,  in  his  sou'- 
wester hat  and  mourning  slops,  presented  himself,  and  was 
received  with  a  general  rush  of  brothers  and  sisters. 

"  Well,  mother  !  "  said  Rob,  dutifully  kissing  her ;  "  how 
are  you,  mother  ?  " 

"  There's  my  boy  !  "  cried  Polly,  giving  him  a  hug  and  a 
pat  on  the  back.     "  Secret !     Bless  you,  father,  not  he  !  " 

This  was  intended  for  Mr.  Toodle's  private  edification,  but 
Rob  the  Grinder,  whose  withers  were  not  unwrung,  caught  the 
words  as  they  were  spoken. 

"  What !  father's  been  a  saying  something  more  again  me, 
has  he  ?  "  cried  the  injured  innocent.  "  Oh,  what  a  hard  thing 
it  is  that  when  a  cove  has  once  gone  a  little  wrong,  a  cove's 
own  father  should  be  always  a  throwing  it  in  his  face  behind 
his  back  !  It's  enough,"  cried  Rob,  resorting  to  his  coat-cuff 
in  anguish  of  spirit,  "  to  make  a  cove  go  and  do  something  out 
of  spite  !  " 

"My  poor  boy!"  cried  Polly,  "father  didn't  mean  any- 
thing." 

"  If  father  didn't  mean  anything,"  blubbered  the  injured 
Grinder,  "  why  did  he  go  and  say  anything,  mother  ?  Nobody 
thinks  half  so  bad  of  me  as  my  own  father  does.  What  a  un- 
natural thing  !  I  wish  somebody'd  take  and  chop  my  head  ofif. 
Father  wouldn't  mind  doing  it,  I  believe,  and  I'd  much  rather 
he  did  that  than  t'other." 

At  these  desperate  words  all  the  young  Toodles  shrieked  ; 
a  pathetic  eflfect,  which  the  Grinder  improved  by  ironically  ad- 
juring them  not  to  cry  for  him,  for  they  ought  to  hate  him,  they 
ought,  if  they  was  good  boys  and  girls  ;  and  this  so  touched 
the  youngest  Toodle  but  one,  who  was  easily  moved,  that  it 
touched  him  not  only  in  his  spirit  but  in  his  wind  too :  making 
him  so  purple  that  Mr.  Toodle  in  consternation  carried  him 
out  to  the  water-butt,  and  would  have  put  him  under  the  tap, 
but  for  his  being  recovered  by  the  sight  of  that  instrument. 

Matters  having  reached  this  point,  Mr.  Toodle  explained, 
and  the  virtuous  feelings  of  his  son  being  thereby  calmed,  they 
shook  hands,  and  harmony  reigned  again. 

■■'  Will  you  do  as  I  do,  Biler,  my  boy  ?  "  inquired  his  father, 
returning  to  his  tea  with  new  strength. 

"  No,  thank'ee,  father.     Master  and  I  had  tea  together." 

"And  how  is  Master, Rob  ?"  said  Polly. 

"Well,  I  don't  know  mother;  not  much  to  boast  on.    There 


j  T  4  ^^ >ArpK  y  A A'D  SOAK 

aiii'l  no  bis  ness  clone,  you  see.  He  don't  know  anything  about 
it,  the  Cap'en  don't.  There  was  a  man  come  into  the  shop  this 
very  day,  and  says,  'I  want  a  so-and-so,'  he  says — some  hard 
name  or  another.  '  A  which  ? '  says  the  Cap'en.  *  A  so-and- 
so,'  says  the  man.  '  Brother,'  says  the  Cap'en,  'will  you  take  a 
observation  round  the  shop  ?  '  '  Well,'  says  the  man,  '  I've  done 
it.'  '  Do  you  see  wot  you  want .-' '  says  the  Cap'en.  '  No,  I  don't, 
says  the  man.  '  Do  you  know  it  wen  you  th  see  it  1 '  says  the 
Cap'en.  '  No,  I  don't,'  says  the  man.  '  Why,  then,  I  tell  you 
wot,  my  lad,'  says  the  Cap'en,  '  you'd  better  go  back  and  ask 
wot  it's  like,  outside,  for  no  more  don't  I  ! '  " 

"That  ain't  the  way  to  make  money,  though,  is  it  ?"  said 
Polly. 

"  Money,  mother  !  He'll  never  make  money.  He  has  such 
ways  as  I  never  see.  He  ain't  a  bad  master  though,  I'll  say 
that  for  him.  But  that  ain't  much  to  me,  for  I  don't  think  I 
shall  stop  with  him  long." 

"  Not  stop  in  your  place,  Rob  !  "  cried  his  mother  ;  while 
Mr.  Toodle  opened  his  eyes. 

"  Not  in  that  place,  p'raps,"  returned  the  Grinder,  with  a 
wink.  "I  shouldn't  wonder — friends  at  court  you  know — but 
never  you  mind,  mother,  just  now  ;  I'm  all  right,  that's  all." 

The  indisputable  proof  afforded  in  these  hints,  and  in  the 
Grinder's  mysterious  manner,  of  his  not  being  subject  to  that 
failing  which  Mr.  Toodle  had,  by  implication,  attributed  to  him, 
might  have  led  to  a  renewal  of  his  wrongs,  and  of  the  sensation 
in  the  family,  but  for  the  opportune  arrival  of  another  visitor, 
who,  to  Polly's  great  surprise,  appeared  at  the  door,  smiling 
patronage  and  friendship  on  all   there. 

"How  do  3'ou  do,  Mrs.  Richards.'"'  said  Miss  Tox.  "I 
have  come  to  see  you.     May  I  come  in  }  " 

The  cheery  face  of  Mrs.  Ricliards  shone  with  a  hospitable 
reply,  and  Miss  Tox,  accepting  the  proffered  chair,  and  grace- 
fully recognizing  Mr.  Toodle  on  her  way  to  it,  untied  her 
bonnet  strings,  and  said  that  in  the  first  place  she  must  beg 
the  dear  children,  one  and  all  to  come  and  kiss  her. 

The  ill-starred  youngest  Toodle  but  one,  who  would  appear, 
from  the  frequency  of  his  domestic  troubles,  to  have  been 
born  under  an  unlucky  planet,  was  prevented  from  performing 
his  part  in  this  general  salutation  by  having  fixed  the  sou'wes- 
ter hat  (with  which  lie  had  been  ]ire\iously  trifling)  deep  on  his 
head,  hind  side  before,  and  being  unable  to  get  it  off  again  ; 
which  accident  presenting  to  his  terrified  imagination  a  disnia' 
picture  of  his  passing  the  rest  of  his  days  in  darkness  and  iv, 


MISS  TOX  IMPROl  ES  A.V  OLD  ACQUAINTANCE      5,5 

hopeless  seclusion  from  his  friends  and  family,  caused  him  to 
struggle  with  great  violence,  and  /o  utter  suffocating  cries. 
Being  released,  his  face  was  discovered  to  be  very  hot,  and  red 
and  damp  ;  and  Miss  Tox  took  him  on  her  lap,  much  ex- 
hausted. 

"  You  have  almost  forgotten  me,  Sir,  I  dare  say,"  said  Miss 
Tox  to  Mr.  Toodle. 

"  No,  Ma'am,  no,"  said  Toodle.  "  But  we've  all  on  us  got 
a  little  older  since  then." 

"And  how  do  you  find  yourself.  Sir?"  inquired  Miss  Tox 
blandly. 

"  Hearty,  Ma'am,  thank'ee,"  replied  Toodle.  "  How  do 
you  find  yourseXi,  Ma'am  ?  Do  the  rheumatics  keep  off  pretty 
well,  Ma'am  ?  We  must  all  expect  to  grow  into  'em,  as  wq 
gets  on." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Miss  Tox.  "  I  have  not  felt  any  incon* 
venience  from  that  disorder  yet." 

"  You're  wery  fortunate.  Ma'am,"  returned  Mr.  Toodle. 
"  Many  people  at  your  time  of  life,  Ma'am,  is  martyrs  to  it. 

There  was  my  mother "     But  catching  his  wife's  eye  here, 

Mr.  Toodle  judiciously  buried  the  rest  in  another  mug  oi 
tea. 

"  You  never  mean  to  say,  Mrs.  Richards,"  cried  Miss  Tox, 
looking  at  Rob,  "  that  that  is  your — " 

"  Eldest,  Ma'am,"  said  Polly.  "  Yes  indeed,  it  is.  That's 
the  little  fellow,  Ma'am  that  was  the  innocent  cause  of  so 
much." 

"  This  here.  Ma'am,"  said  Toodle,  "  is  him  with  the  short 
legs — and  they  was,"  said  Mr.  Toodle,  with  a  touch  of  poetry 
in  his  tone,  "  unusual  short  for  leathers — as  Mr.  Dombey  made 
a  Grinder  on." 

The  recollection  almost  overpowered  Miss  Tox.  The  sub- 
ject of  it  had  a  peculiar  interest  for  her  directly.  She  asked 
him  to  shake  hands,  and  congratulated  his  mother  on  his  frank, 
ingenuous  face.  Rob,  overhearing  her,  called  up  a  look,  to 
justify  the  eulogium,  but  it  was  hardly  the  right  look. 

"And  now,  Mrs.  Richards,"  said  Miss  Tox, — "and  you 
too,  Sir,"  addressing  Toodle — "  I'll  tell  you,  plainly  and  truly, 
what  I  have  come  here  for.  You  may  be  aware,  Mrs.  Richards 
— and,  possibly,  you  may  be  aware  too.  Sir — that  a  little  dis- 
tance has  interposed  itself  between  me  and  some  of  my  friends, 
and  that  where  I  used  to  visit  a  good  deal,  I  do  not  visit  now." 

Polly,  who,  with  a  woman's  tact,  understood  this   at  once, 

expressed  as  much  in  a  little  look,    Mr.  Toodle,  who  had  m\ 


-,5  DOMBEY  AXD  SON. 

the  faintest  idea  of  what  Miss  Tox  was  talking  about,  expressed 
that  also,  in  a  stare. 

"Of  course,"  said  Miss  Tox,  "how  our  little  coolness  has 
arisen  is  of  no  moment,  and  does  not  require  to  be  discussed. 
It  is  sufficient  for  me  to  say,  that  I  have  the  greatest  possible 
respect  for,  and  interest  in,  Mr.  Dombey  ; "  Miss  Tox's  voice 
faltered  ;  "  and  everything  that  relates  to  him," 

Mr.  Toodle,  enlightened,  shook  his  head,  and  said  he  had 
heerd  it  said,  and,  for  his  own  part,  he  did  think,  as  Mr.  Dom- 
bey was  a  difficult  subject. 

"  Pray  don't  say  so.  Sir,  if  you  please,"  returned  Miss  Tox. 
"  Let  me  entreat  you  not  to  say  so.  Sir,  either  now  or_  at  any 
future  time.  Such  observations  cannot  but  be  ver)'  painful  to 
me,  and  to  a  gentleman,  whose  mind  is  constituted  as,  I  am 
quite  sure  yours  is,  can  afford  no  permanent  satisfaction." 

Mr.  Toodle  who  had  not  entertained  the  least  doubt  of 
«5fifering  a  remark  that  would  be  received  with  acquiescence,  was 
greatly  confounded. 

"  All  that  I  wish  to  say,  Mrs.  Richards,"  resumed  Miss 
Tox, — "  and  I  address  myself  to  you  too,  Sir, — is  this.  That 
any  intelligence  of  the  proceedings  of  the  family,  of  the  welfare 
of  the  family,  of  the  health  of  the  family,  that  reaches  you,  will 
be  always  most  acceptable  to  me.  That  I  shall  be  always  very 
glad  to  chat  with  Mrs.  Richards  about  the  family,  and  about 
old  times.  And  as  Mr.  Richards  and  I  never  had  the  least 
difference  (though  I  could  wish  now  that  we  had  been  better 
acquainted,  but  I  have  no  one  but  myself  to  blame  for  that), 
I  hope  she  will  not  object  to  our  being  very  good  friends  now, 
and  to  my  coming  backwards  and  forwards  here,  when  I  like, 
without  being  a  stranger.  Now,  I  really  hope  Mrs.  Richards," 
said  Miss  Tox,  earnestly,  "  that  you  will  take  this,  as  I  mean  it, 
like  a  good-humored  creature,  as  you  always  were." 

Polly  was  gratified,  and  showed  it.  Mr.  Toodle  didn't 
know  whether  he  was  gratified  or  not,  and  preserved  a  stolid 
calmness. 

t'  You  see,  Mrs.  Richards,"  said  Miss  Tox — "  and  I  hope 
you  see  too.  Sir — there  are  many  little  ways  in  which  I  can  be 
slightly  useful  to  you,  if  you  will  make  no  stranger  of  me  ;  and 
in  which  I  shall  be  delighted  to  be  so.  For  instance,  I  can 
teach  your  children  something.  I  shall  bring  a  few  little  books, 
if  you'll  allow  me,  and  some  work,  and  of  an  evening  now  and 
then,  they'll  learn — dear  me,  they'll  learn  a  great  deal,  I  trust, 
and  be  a  credit  to  their  teacher." 

Mr.  Toodle,  who  had  a  great  respect  for  learning,  jerked  hi» 


Miss  tox  impro  ves  an  old  acquaintance.    ^  j . 

head  approvingly  at  his  wife,  and  moistened  his  hands  with 
dawning  satisfaction. 

"  Then,  not  being  a  stranger,  I  shall  be  in  nobody's  way  ** 
said  Miss  Tox,  "  and  everything  will  go  on  just  as  if  I  were  not 
here.  Mrs.  Richards  will  do  her  mending,  or  her  ironing,  or 
her  nursing,  whatever  it  is,  without  minding  me  ;  and  you'll 
smoke  your  pipe,  too,  if  you're  so  disposed,  Sir,  won't  you  }  " 

"  Thank'ee,  Mum,"  said  Mr.  Toodle.  "  Yes  j  I'll  take  my 
bit  of  backer." 

"  Very  good  of  you  to  say  so,  Sir,"  rejoined  Miss  Tox,  "  and  I 
really  do  assure  you  now,  unfeignedly,  that  it  will  be  a  great 
comfort  to  me,  and  that  whatever  good  I  may  be  fortunate  enough 
to  do  the  children,  you  will  more  than  pay  back  to  me,  if  you'll 
enter  into  this  little  bargain  comfortably,  and  easily,  and  good- 
naturedly,  without  another  word  about  it." 

The  bargain  was  ratified  on  the  spot ;  and  Miss  Tox  found 
herself  so  much  at  home  already,  that  without  delay  she  in- 
stituted a  preliminary  examination  of  the  children  all  round — • 
which  Mr.  Toodle  much  admired  —  and  booked  their  ages, 
names,  and  acquirements,  on  a  piece  of  paper.  This  ceremony, 
and  a  little  attendant  gossip,  prolonged  the  time  until  after 
their  usual  hour  of  going  to  bed,  and  detained  Miss  Tox  at  the 
Toodle  fireside  until  it  was  too  late  for  her  to  walk  home  alone. 
The  gallant  Grinder,  however,  being  still  there,  politely  offered 
to  attend  her  to  her  own  door  ;  and  as  it  was  something  to  Miss 
Tox  to  be  seen  home  by  a  youth  whom  Mr.  Dombey  had  first 
inducted  into  those  manly  garments  which  are  rarely  mentioned 
by  name,  she  very  readily  accepted  the  proposal. 

After  shaking  hands  with  Mr.  Toodle  and  Polly,  and  kissing 
all  the  children.  Miss  Tox  left  the  house,  therefore,  with  un- 
limited popularity,  and  carrying  away  with  her  so  light  a  heart 
that  it  might  have  given  Mrs.  Chick  offence  if  that  good  lady 
could  have  weighed  it. 

Rob  the  Grinder,  in  his  modesty,  would  have  walked  be- 
hind, but  Miss  Tox  desired  him  to  keep  beside  her,  for  conver- 
sational purposes  ;  and,  as  she  afterwards  expressed  it  to  his 
mother  "  drew  him  out,"  upon  the  road. 

He  drew  out  so  bright,  and  clear,  and  shining,  that  Miss 
Tox  was  charmed  with  him.  The  more  Miss  Tox  drew  him 
out,  the  finer  he  came — like  wire.  There  never  was  a  better 
or  more  promising  youth — a  more  affectionate,  steady,  prudent, 
sober,  honest,  meek,  candid  young  man — than  Rob  drew  out 
that  night. 

"  I  am  (juite  ^lad,"  said  Miss  Tox,  arrived  at  her  own  door^ 


-  J  8  DOMBE  y  A  XD  SON. 

"to  know  you.  I  hope  you'll  consider  me  your  friend,  and 
that  you'll  come  and  see  me  as  often  as  you  like.  Do  you  keep 
a  money-box  1 " 

•'  Yes,  Ma'am,"  returned  Rob  ;  "  I'm  saving  up  against  I've 
got  enough  to  put  in  the  Bank,  Ma'am." 

"  Very  laudable  indeed,"  said  Miss  Tox.  "  I'm  glad  to  hear 
it.     Put  this  half-crown  into  it,  if  you  please." 

"  Oh  thank  you.  Ma'am,"  replied  Rob,  "  but  really  I  couldn't 
think  of  depriving  you." 

"  I  commend  your  independent  spirit,"  said  Miss  Tox,  "but 
it's  no  privation,  I  assure  you.  I  shall  be  offended  if  you  dorft 
take  it,  as  a  mark  of  my  good-will.     Good-night,  Robin." 

"  Good-night,  Ma'am,"  said  Rob,  "  and  thank  you  !  "^ 

Who  ran  sniggering  off  to  get  change,  and  tossed  it  away 
with  a  pieman.  But  they  never  taught  honor  at  the  Grinders' 
School,  where  the  system  that  prevailed  was  particularly  strong 
in  the  engendering  of  hypocrisy.  Insomuch,  that  many  of  the 
friends  and  masters  of  past  Grinders  said,  if  this  were  what 
came  of  education  for  the  common  people,  let  us  have  none. 
Some  more  rational  said,  let  us  have  a  better  one.  But  the 
governing  powers  of  the  Grinders'  Company  were  always  ready 
for  them,  by  picking  out  a  few  boys  who  had  turned  out  well, 
in  spite  of  the  system,  and  roundly  asserting  that  they  could 
have  only  turned  out  well  because  of  it.  Which  settled  the 
business  of  those  objectors  out  of  hand,  and  established  the 
glory  of  the  Grinders'  Institudon. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

FURTHER  ADVENTURES  OF  CAPTAIN    EDWARD    CUTTLE,  MARINER. 

Time,  sure  of  foot  and  strong  of  will,  had  so  pressed  onward, 
that  the  year  enjoined  by  the  old  Jnstrument-maker,  as  the 
term  during  which  his  friend  should  refrain  from  opening  the 
sealed  packet  accompanying  the  letter  he  had  left  for  him,  was 
now  nearly  expired,  and  Captain  Cuttle  began  to  look  at  it,  of 
an  evening,  with  feelings  of  mystery  and  uneasiness. 

The  Captain,  in  his  honor,  would  as  soon  have  thought  of 
opening  the  parcel  one  hour  before  the  expiration  of  the  term, 
as  he  would  have  thought  of  opening  himself,  to  study  his  own 
anatomy.     He  merely  brought  it  out,  at  a  certain  stage  of  hi| 


FURTHER  ADVENTURES  OF  CAPTAIN  CUTTLE.     545 

first  evening  pipe,  laid  it  on  the  table,  and  sat  gazing  at  the 
outside  of  it,  through  the  smoke,  in  silent  gravity,  for  two  or 
three  hours  at  a  spell.  Sometimes,  when  he  had^contemplated 
it  thus  for  a  pretty  long  while,  the  Captain  would  hitch  his 
chair,  by  degrees,  farther  and  farther  off,  as  if  to  get  beyond 
the  range  of  its  fascination  ;  but  if  this  were  his  design,  he 
never  succeeded  ;  for  even  when  he  was  brought  up  by  the 
parlor  wall,  the  packet  still  attracted  him  ;  or  if  his  eyes,  in 
thoughtful  wandering,  roved  to  the  ceiling  or  the  fire,  its  image 
immediately  followed,  and  posted  itself  conspicuously  among 
the  coals,  or  took  up  an  advantageous  position  on  the  white- 
wash. 

In  respect  of  Heart's  Delight,  the  Captain's  parental  regard 
and  admiration  knew  no  change.  But  since  his  last  interview 
with  Mr.  Carker,  Captain  Cuttle  had  come  to  entertain  doubts 
whether  his  former  intervention  in  behalf  of  that  young  lady 
and  his  dear  boy  Wal'r,  had  proved  altogether  so  favorable  as 
he  could  have  wished,  and  as  he  at  the  time  believed.  The 
Captain  was  troubled  with  a  serious  misgiving  that  he  had  done 
more  harm  than  good,  in  short ;  and  in  his  remorse  and  modesty 
he  made  the  best  atonement  he  could  think  of,  by  putting  him- 
self out  of  the  way  of  doing  any  harm  to  any  one,  and,  as  it 
were,  throwing  himself  overboard  for  a  dangerous  person. 

Self-buried,  therefore,  among  the  instruments,  the  Captain 
never  went  near  Mr.  Dombey's  house,  or  reported  himself  in 
any  way  to  Florence  or  Miss  Nipper.  He  even  severed  himself 
from  Mr.  Perch,  on  the  occasion  of  his  next  visit,  by  dryly 
informing  that  gentleman,  that  he  thanked  him  for  his  company, 
but  had  cut  himself  adrift  from  all  such  acquaintance,  as  he 
didn't  know  what  magazine  he  mightn't  blow  up,  without  mean- 
ing of  it.  In  this  self-imposed  retirement,  the  Captain  passed 
whole  days  and  weeks  without  interchanging  a  word  with  any 
one  but  Rob  the  Grinder,  whom  he  esteemed  as  a  pattern  of 
disinterested  attachment  and  fidelity.  In  this  retirement,  the 
Captain,  gazing  at  the  packet  of  an  evening,  would  sit  smoking 
and  thinking  of  Florence  and  poor  Walter,  until  they  both 
seemed  to  his  homely  fancy  to  be  dead,  and  to  have  passed 
away  into  eternal  youth,  the  beautiful  and  innocent  children  of 
his  first  remembrance. 

The  Captain  did  not,  however,  in  his  musings,  neglect  his 
own  improvement,  or  the  mental  culture  of  Rob  the  Grinder. 
That  young  man  was  generally  required  to  read  out  of  some 
book  to  the  Captain,  for  an  hour,  every  evening  \  and  as  the 
Captain  implicitly  believed  that  all  bogks  were  true,  he  accvf 


52 c  DOME EY  AND  SON. 

nnilated,  by  this  means,  many  remarkable  facts.  On  Sunday 
nights,  the  Captain  always  read  for  himself,  before  going  to  bed^ 
a  certain  Divine  Sermon  once  delivered  on  a  Mount ;  and 
although  he  was  accustomed  to  quote  the  text,  without  book, 
after  his  own  manner,  he  appeared  to  read  it  with  as  reverent 
an  understanding  of  its  heavenly  spirit,  as  if  he  had  got  it  all 
by  heart  in  Greek,  and  had  been  able  to  write  any  number  o! 
fierce  theological  disquisitions  on  its  ever}'  phrase. 

Rob  the  Grinder,  whose  reverence  for  the  inspired  writings, 
under  the  admirable  system  of  the  Grinders'  School,  had  been 
developed  by  a  perpetual  bruising  of  his  intellectual  shins 
against  all  the  proper  names  of  all  the  tribes  of  Judah,  and  by 
the  monotonous  repetition  of  hard  verses,  especially  by  way  of 
punishment,  and  by  the  parading  of  him  at  six  years  old  in  leather 
breeches,  three  times  a  Sunday,  very  high  up,  in  a  ver)'  hot 
church,  with  a  great  organ  buzzing  against  his  drowsy  head, 
like  an  exceedingly  busy  bee — Rob  the  Grinder  made  a  mighty 
show  of  being  edified  when  the  Captain  ceased  to  read,  and 
generally  yawned  and  nodded  while  the  reading  was  in  progress. 
The  latter  fact  being  never  so  much  as  suspected  by  the  good 
Captain. 

Captain  Cuttle,  also,  as  a  man  of  business,  took  to  keeping 
books.  In  these  he  entered  observations  on  the  weather,  and 
on  the  currents  of  the  wagons  and  other  vehicles  :  which  he 
observed,  in  that  quarter,  to  set  westward  in  the  morning  and 
during  the  greater  part  of  the  day,  and  eastward  towards  the 
evening.  Two  or  three  stragglers  appearing  in  one  week,  who 
•' spoke  hi«n  " — so  the  Captain  entered  it — on  the  subject  of 
spectacles,  and  who,  without  positively  purchasing,  said  they 
would  look  in  again,  the  Captain  decided  that  the  business  was 
improvinjr  and  made  an  entry  in  the  day-book  to  that  effect  : 
the  wind  then  blowing  (which  he  first  recorded)  pretty  fresh, 
west  and  by  north  ;  having  changed  in  the  night. 

One-  of  the  Captain's  chief  difficulties  was  Mr.  Toots,  who 
called  frequently,  and  who  without  saying  much  seemed  to  have 
an  idea  that  the  little  back  parlor  was  an  eligible  room  to 
chuckle  in,  as  he  would  sit  and  avail  himself  of  its  accomoda- 
tions in  that  regard  by  the  half-hour  together,  without  at  all 
advancing  in  intimacy  with  the  Captain.  The  C^aptain,  rendered 
cautious  by  his  late  experience,  was  unable  quite  to  satisfy  his 
mind  whether  Mr.  Toots  was  tlie  mild  subject  he  appeared  to 
be,  or  was  a  profoundly  artful  and  dissimulating  h\'pocrite. 
His  frequent  reference  to  Miss  Dombey  was  suspicious  ;  but 
the  Captain  had  a  secret  kindness  for  Mr.  Toots's  apparent 


FURTHER  ADVENTLKES  OF  CAPTAIN  CUTTLE. 


521 


reliance  on  him,  and  forbore  to  decide  against  liini  for  the  pres* 
ent  ;  merely  eyeing  him,  with  a  sagacity  not  to  be  described, 
whenever  he  approached  the  subject  that  was  nearest  to  his 
heart. 

"  Captain  Gills,"  blurted  out  Mr.  Toots,  one  day  all  at  once 
as  his  manner  was,  "do  you  think  you  could  think  favorably  of 
that  proposition  of  mine,  and  give  me  the  pleasure  of  your 
acquaintance  ?  " 

"Why,  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  my  lad,"  replied  the  Captain, 
who  had  at  length  concluded  on  a  course  of  action  ;  "  I've  been 
turning  that  there  over." 

"  Captain  Gills,  it's  very  kind  of  you,"  retorted  Mr.  Toots. 
"  I'm  much  obliged  to  you.  Upon  my  word  and  honor.  Captain 
Gills,  it  would  be  a  charity  to  give  me  the  pleasure  of  your 
acquaintance.     It  really  would." 

"  You  see.  Brother,"  argued  the  Captain  slowly,  "  I  don't 
know  you." 

"  But  you  never  can  know  me.  Captain  Gills,"  replied  Mr. 
Toots,  steadfast  to  his  point,  "  if  you  don't  give  me  the  pleasure 
of  your  acquaintance." 

The  Captain  seemed  struck  by  the  originality  and  power  of 
this  remark,  and  looked  at  Mr.  Toots  as  if  he  thought  there 
was  a  great  deal  more  in  him  than  he  had  expected. 

"  Well  said,  my  lad,"  observed  the  Captain,  nodding  his 
head  thoughtfully  ;  "  and  true.  Now  look'ee  here  :  You've 
made  some  observations  to  me,  which  gives  me  to  understand 
as  you  admire  a  certain  sweet  creetur.     Hey  1  " 

"  Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  gesticulating  violently 
with  the  hand  in  which  he  held  his  hat,  "  Admiration  is  not  the 
word.  Upon  my  honor,  you  have  no  conception  what  my  feel- 
ings are.  If  I  could  be  dyed  black,  and  made  Miss  Dombey's 
slave,  I  should  consider  it  a  compliment.  If,  at  the  sacrifice  of 
all  my  property,  I  could  get  transmigrated  into  Miss  Dombey's 
dog — I — I  really  think  I  should  never  leave  off  wagging  my 
tail.     I  should  be  so  perfectly  happy.  Captain  Gills  ! " 

Mr.  Toots  said  it  with  watery  eyes,  and  pressed  his  hat 
against  his  bosom  with  deep  emotion. 

"My  lad,"  returned  the  Captain,  moved  to  compassion,  "if 
you're  in  arnest — " 

"  Captain  Gills,"  cried  Mr.  Toots,  "  I'm  in  such  a  state  of 
mind,  and  am  so  dreadfully  in  earnest,  that  if  I  could  swear  to  it 
upon  a  hot  piece  of  iron,  or  a  live  coal,  or  melt«d  lead,  or  burn- 
ing sealing-wax,  or  anything  of  that  sort,  1  should  be  glad  to 
hurt  myself^  as  a  relief  to  my  feelings."    And  Mr.  Toots  looked 


522 


DOM  BEY  ANn  SON. 


hurriedly  about  the  room,  as  if  for  some  sufficiently  painful 
means  of  accomplishing  his  dread  purpose. 

The  Captain  pushed  his  glazed  hat  back  upon  his  head, 
stroked  his  face  down  with  his  heavy  hand — making  his  nose 
more  mottled  in  the  process — and  planting  himself  before  Mr. 
Toots,  and  hooking  him  by  the  lapel  of  his  coat,  addressed  him 
in  these  words,  while  Mr.  Toots  looked  up  into  his  face,  with 
much  attention  and  some  wonder. 

"If  you're  in  arnest,  you  see,  my  lad,"  said  the  Captain, 
"  you're  a  object  of  clemency,  and  clemency  is  the  brightest 
jewel  in  the  crown  of  a  Briton's  head,  for  which  you'll  overhaul 
the  constitution  as  laid  down  in  Rule  Britannia,  and,  when 
found,  that  is  the  charter  as  them  garden  angels  was  a  singing 
of,  so  many  times  over.  Stand  by  !  This  here  proposal  o' 
you'rn  takes  me  a  little  aback.  And  why  ?  Because  I  holds 
my  own  only,  you  understand,  in  these  here  waters,  and  haven't 
got  no  consort,  and  may  be  don't  wish  for  none.  Steady  ! 
You  hailed  me  first,  along  of  a  certain  young  lady,  as  you  was 
chartered  by.  Now  if  you  and  me  is  to  keep  one  another's 
company  at  all,  that  there  young  creetur's  name  must  never  be 
named  nor  referred  to.  I  don't  know  what  harm  mayn't  have 
been  done  by  naming  of  it  too  free,  afore  now,  and  thereby  I 
brings  up  short.     D'ye  make  me  out  pretty  clear,  brother }  " 

"  Well,  you'll  excuse  me,  Captain  Gills,"  replied  Mr.  Toots, 
"  if  I  don't  quite  follow  you  sometimes.  But  upon  my  word  I — • 
it's  a  hard  thing.  Captain  Gills,  not  to  be  able  to  mention  Miss 
Dombey.  I  really  have  got  such  a  dreadful  load  here  !  " — Mr. 
Toots  pathetically  touched  his  shirt-front  with  both  hands — 
"  that  1  feel  night  and  day,  exactly  as  if  somebody  was  sitting 
upon  me." 

"  Them,"  said  the  Captain,  "  is  the  terms  I  offer.  If  they're 
hard  upon  you,  brother,  as  mayhap  they  are,  give  'em  a  wide 
berth,  sheer  off,  and  part  company  cheerily  !  " 

"  Captain  Gills,"  returned  Mr.  Toots,  "  I  hardly  know  how 
it  is,  but  after  what  you  told  me  when  I  came  here,  for  the  first 
time,  I — I  feel  that  I'd  rather  think  about  Miss  Dombey  in 
your  society  than  talk  about  her  in  almost  anybody  else's. 
Therefore,  Captain  Gills,  if  you  give  me  the  pleasure  of  your 
acquaintance,  I  shall  be  very  happy  to  accept  it  on  your  own 
conditions,  I  wish  to  be  honorable,  Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr. 
Toots,  holding  back  his  extended  hand  for  a  moment,  "  and 
therefore  I  am  obliged  to  say  that  I  cati  not  help  thinking  about 
Miss  Dombey.  It's  impossible  for  me  to  make  a  promise  npt 
to  think  about  Jier." 


if'URTilER  ADVEktVkES  OP  CAPTAIN  CV^TTLE.    52 j 

"  My  lad,"  said  the  Captain,  whose  opinion  of  Mr.  Toots 
was  much  improved  by  this  candid  avowal,  "  a  man's  thoughts 
is  like  the  winds,  and  nobody  can't  answer  for  'em  for  certain, 
any  length  of  time  togetjier.     Is  it  a  treaty  as  to  words  ?  " 

"As  to  words,  Captain  Gills,"  returned  Mr.  Toots,"! 
think  I  can  bind  myself." 

Mr.  Toots  gave  Captain  Cuttle  his  hand  upon  it,  then  and 
there ;  and  the  Captain  with  a  pleasant  and  gracious  show  of 
condescension,  bestowed  his  acquaintance  upon  him  formally. 
Mr.  Toots  seemed  much  relieved  and  gladdened  by  the  acquisi- 
tion, and  chuckled  rapturously  during  the  remainder  of  his  visit 
The  Captain,  for  his  part,  was  not  ill  pleased  to  occupy  that 
position  of  patronage,  and  was  exceedingly  well  satisfied  by 
his  own  prudence  and  foresight. 

But  rich  as  Captain  Cuttle  was  in  the  latter  quality,  he  re- 
ceived a  surprise  that  same  evening  from  a  no  less  ingenuous 
and  simple  youth,  than  Rob  the  Grinder.  That  artless  lad, 
drinking  tea  at  the  same  table,  and  bending  meekly  over  his 
cup  and  saucer,  having  taken  sidelong  observations  of  his 
master  for  some  time,  who  was  reading  the  newspaper  with 
great  difficulty,  but  much  dignity,  through  his  glasses,  broke 
silence  by  saying — 

"  Oh !  I  beg  your  pardon,  Captain,  but  you  mayn't  be  in 
want  of  any  pigeons,  may  you,  Sir.?  " 

"  No,  my  lad,"  replied  the  Captain. 

"  Because  I  was  wishing  to  dispose  of  mine.  Captain,"  said 
Rob. 

"  Ay,  ay  ? "  cried  the  Captain,  lifting  up  his  bushy  eyer 
brows  a  little. 

"Yes  ;  I'm  going,  Captain,  if  you  please,"  said  Rob. 

"  Going  ?  Where  are  you  going  1  "  asked  the  Captain, 
looking  round  at  him  over  the  glasses. 

"What?  didn't  you  know  that  I  was  going  to  leave  you, 
Captain  ?"  asked  Rob,  with  a  sneaking  smile. 

The  Captain  put  down  the  paper,  took  oiif  his  spectacles, 
and  brought  his  eyes  to  bear  on  the  deserter. 

"  Oh  yes.  Captain,  I  am  going  to  give  you  warning.  I 
thought  you'd  have  known  that  beforehand,  perhaps,"  said  Rob, 
rubbing  his  hands,  and  getting  up.  "  If  you  could  be  so  good 
as  provide  yourself  soon.  Captain,  it  would  be  a  great  conve- 
nience to  me.  You  couldn't  provide  yourself  by  to-morrow 
morning,  I  am  afraid.  Captain  :  could  you,  do  you  think  ?  " 

"  And  you're  a  going  to  desert  your  colors  are  you,  my  lad  ?  " 
gaid  the  Captain,  after  a  long  examination  of  his  face. 


S54 


DOMBiiY  A,VD  SOM 


"  Oh,  it's  very  liaKl  upon  a  cove,  Captain,"  cried  the  tender 
Koh,  injured  and  indignant  in  a  moment,  "  that  he  can't  give 
lawful  warning,  without  being  frowned  at  in  that  way,  and 
called  a  deserter.  You  haven't  any  right  to  call  a  poor  cove 
names.  Captain.  It  ain't  because  I'm  a  servant  and  you're  a 
master,  that  you're  to  go  and  libel  me.  What  wrong  have  I 
done  ?     Come,  let  me  know  what  my  crime  is,  will  you  ?  " 

The  stricken  Grinder  wept,  and  put  his  coat-cuft"  in  his  eye. 

"  Come,  Captain,"  cried  the  injured  youth,  "give  my  crime 
a  name  1  What  have  I  been  and  done  ?  Have  I  stolen  any  of 
the  property  ?  have  I  set  the  house  a-fire  ?  If  I  have,  why  don't 
you  give  me  in  charge,  and  try  it  ?  But  to  take  away  the 
character  of  a  lad  that's  been  a  good  servant  to  you,  because 
he  can't  afford  to  stand  in  his  own  light  for  your  good,  what  a 
injury  it  is,  and  what  a  bad  return  for  faithful  service  !  This 
is  the  way  young  coves  is  spiled  and  drove  wrong.  I  wonder 
at  you  Captain,  I  do," 

All  of  which  the  Grinder  howled  forth  in  a  lachrymose 
whine,  and  backing  carefully  towards  the  door, 

"  And  so  you've  got  another  berth,  have  you,  my  lad  ?  " 
said  the  Captain,  eyeing  him  intently, 

"  Yes,  Captain,  since  you  put  it  in  that  shape,  I  have  got 
another  berth,"  cried  Rob,  backing  more  and  more ;  "  a  better 
berth  than  I've  got  here,  and  one  that  I  don't  so  much  as  want 
your  good  word.  Captain,  which  is  fort'nate  for  me  after  all 
the  dirt  you've  throw'd  at  me,  because  I'm  poor,  and  can't  af- 
ford to  stand  in  my  own  light  for  your  good.  Yes,  I  Iiavc  got 
another  berth ;  and  if  it  wasn't  for  leaving  you  unprovided, 
Captain,  I'd  go  to  it  now,  sooner  than  I'd  take  them  names 
from  you,  because  I'm  poor,  and  can't  afford  to  stand  in  my 
own  light  for  your  good.  Why  do  you  reproach  me  for  being 
poor,  and  not  standing  in  my  own  light  for  your  good,  Captain? 
How  can  you  so  demean  yourself  ?  " 

"  Look  ye  here,  my  boy,"  replied  the  peaceful  Captain, 
"  Uon't  you  pay  out  no  more  of  them  words." 

"  Well,  then,  don't  you  pay  in  no  more  of  your  words,  Cap- 
tain," retorted  the  roused  innocent,  getting  louder  in  his  whine, 
and  backing  into  the  shop.  "  I'd  sooner  you  took  my  blood 
than  my  character." 

"Because,"  pursued  the  Captain  calmly,  "you  have  heerd, 
may  be,  of  such  a  thing  as  a  rope's  end." 

"  Oh,  I  have  though.  Captain  ?  "  cried  the  taunting  Grinder. 
**  No  I  haven't.     I  never  heerd  of  any  such  a  article  !  " 

"Well,"  said  the  Captain,  "it's  my  belief  as  you'll  know 


tUkTilER  ADVENTUkES  OF  CaPTAIM  CUTTLE. 


S'-l 


more  about  it  pretty  soon,  if  you  don't  keep  a  bright  look  out. 
I  can  read  your  signals,  my  lad     You  may  go." 

"  Oh  I  I  may  go  at  once,  may  I,  Captain  ?  "  cried  Rob,  ex- 
ulting in  his  success.  "  But  mind  !  /never  asked  to  go  at  once, 
Captain.  You  are  not  to  take  away  my  character  again,  be- 
cause you  send  me  off  of  your  own  accord.  And  you're  not  to 
Stop  any  of  my  wages.  Captain  !  " 

His  employer  settled  the  last  point  by  producing  the  tin 
canister  and  telling  the  Grinder's  money  out  in  full  upon  the 
table.  Rob,  snivelling  and  sobbing,  and  grievously  wounded 
in  his  feelings,  took  up  the  pieces  one  by  one,  with  a  sob  and  a 
snivel  for  each,  and  tied  them  up  separately  in  knots  in  his 
pocket-handkerchief  ;  then  he  ascended  to  the  roof  of  the  house 
and  filled  his  hat  and  pockets  with  pigeons ;  then,  came  down 
to  his  bed  under  the  counter  and  made  up  his  bundle,  snivel- 
ling and  sobbing  louder  as  if  he  were  cut  to  the  heart  by  old 
associations;  then  he  whined,  "Good-night,  Captain.  I  leave 
you  without  malice !  "  and  then,  going  out  upon  the  door-step, 
pulled  the  little  Midshipman's  nose  as  a  parting  indignity,  and 
went  away  down  the  street  grinning  triumph. 

The  Captain,  left  to  himself,  resumed  his  perusal  of  the 
news  as  if  nothing  unusual  or  unexpected  had  taken  place,  and 
went  reading  on  with  the  greatest  assiduity.  But  never  a  word 
did  Captain  Cuttle  understand,  though  he  read  a  vast  number, 
for  Rob  the  Grinder  was  scampering  up  one  column  and  down 
another  all  through  the  newspaper. 

It  is  doubtful  whether  the  worthy  Captain  had  ever  felt 
himself  quite  abandoned  until  now ;  but  now,  old  Sol  Gills, 
Walter,  and  Heart's  Delight  were  lost  to  him  indeed,  and  now 
Mr.  Carker  deceived  and  jeered  him  cruelly.  They  were  all 
represented  in  the  false  Rob,  to  whom  he  had  held  forth  many 
a  time  on  the  recollections  that  were  warm  within  him  ;  he  had 
believed  in  the  false  Rob,  and  had  been  glad  to  believe  in 
him  ;  he  had  made  a  companion  of  him  as  the  last  of  the  old 
ship's  company ;  he  had  taken  the  command  of  the  little  Mid- 
shipman with  him  at  his  right  hand  ;  he  had  meant  to  do  his 
duty  by  him,  and  had  felt  almost  as  kindly  towards  the  boy  as 
if  they  had  been  shipwrecked  and  cast  upon  a  desert  place  to- 
gether. And  now,  that  the  false  Rob  had  brought  distrust, 
treachery,  and  meanness  into  the  very  parlor,  which  was  a 
kind  of  sacred  place,  Captain  Cuttle  felt  as  if  the  parlor  might 
have  gone  down  next,  and  not  surprised  him  much  by  its  sink' 
mg,  or  given  him  any  very  great  concern. 

Therefore  Captain  Cuttle   read   the   newspaper  with  pro 


^26  DOM  BE  Y  AND  SOAK 

found  altenlion  and  no  comprehension,  and  therefore  Captain 
Cutlle  said  nothing  whatever  about  Rob  to  himself,  or  admit- 
ted to  himself  that  he  was  thinking  about  him,  or  would  recog- 
nize in  the  most  distant  manner  that  Rob  had  anything  to  do 
with  his  feeling  as  lonely  as  Robinson  Crusoe. 

In  the  same  composed,  business-like  way,  the  Captain 
stepped  over  to  Leadenhall  Market  in  the  dusk,  and  effected 
an  arrangement  with  a  private  watchman  on  duty  there,  to 
come  and  put  up  and  take  down  the  shutters  of  the  Wooden 
Midshipman  every  night  and  morning.  He  then  called  in  at 
the  eating-house  to  diminish  by  one  half  the  daily  rations 
theretofore  supplied  to  the  Midshipman,  and  at  the  public- 
house  to  stop  the  traitor's  beer.  "  My  young  man,"  said  the 
Captain,  in  explanation  to  the  young  lady  at  the  bar,  "  my 
young  man  having  bettered  himself.  Miss."  Lastly,  the  Cap- 
tain resolved  to  take  possession  of  the  bed  under  the  counter, 
and  to  turn-in  there  o'  nights  instead  of  up  stairs,  as  sole 
guardian  of  the  property. 

From  this  bed  Captain  Cuttle  daily  rose  thenceforth,  and 
clapped  on  his  glazed  hat  at  six  o'clock  in  the  morning,  with 
the  solitary  air  of  Crusoe  finishing  his  toilet  with  his  goat-skin 
cap  ;  and  although  his  fears  of  a  visitation  from  the  savage 
tribe,  MacStinger,  were  somewhat  cooled,  as  similar  apprehen- 
sions on  the  part  of  that  lone  mariner  used  to  be  by  the  lapse 
of  a  long  interval  without  any  symptoms  of  the  cannibals,  he 
still  observed  a  regular  routine  of  defensive  operations,  and 
never  encountered  a  bonnet  without  previous  survey  from  his 
castle  of  retreat.  In  the  mean  time  (during  which  he  received 
no  call  from  Mr.  Toots,  who  wrote  to  say  he  was  out  of  town) 
his  own  voice  began  to  have  a  strange  sound  in  his  ears  ;  and 
he  acquired  such  hal^its  of  profound  meditation  from  much 
polishing  and  stowing  away  of  the  stock,  and  from  much  sit- 
ting behind  the  counter  reading,  or  looking  out  of  window, 
that  the  red  rim  made  on  his  forehead  by  the  hard  glazed  hat, 
sometimes  ached  again  with  excess  of  reflection. 

The  year  being  now  expired,  Captain  Cuttle  deemed  it 
expedient  to  open  the  packet ;  but  as  he  had  always  designed 
doing  this  in  the  presence  of  Rob  the  Grinder,  who  had 
brought  it  to  him,  and  as  he  had  an  idea  that  it  would  be 
regular  and  ship-shape  to  open  it  in  the  presence  of  some- 
body, he  was  sadly  put  to  it  for  want  of  a  witness.  In  this 
difficulty,  he  hailed  one  day  with  unusual  delight  the  announce- 
ment in  the  Shipping  Intelligence  of  the  arrival  of  the  Cautious 
Clara,  Captain  John  Jiunsby,  from  a  coasting  voyage  :  and  to 


fUHTHER  ADVEN7VRES  OF  CAJ'TAIIV  CUTTLE.    55} 

that  Philosopher  immediately  despatched  a  letter  by  post,  en- 
joining inviolable  secrecy  as  to  his  place  of  residence,  and 
requesting  to  be  favored  with  an  early  visit,  in  the  evening 
season. 

Bunsby,  who  was  one  of  those  sages  who  act  upon  conviction, 
took  some  days  to  get  the  conviction  thoroughly  into  his  mind, 
that  he  had  received  a  letter  to  this  effect.  But  when  he  had 
grappled  with  the  fact,  and  mastered  it,  he  promptly  sent  his 
boy  with  the  message,  "  He's  a  coming  to-night."  Who  being 
instructed  to  deliver  those  words  and  disappear,  fulfilled  his 
mission  like  a  tarry  spirit,  charged  with  a  mysterious  warning. 

The  Captain,  well  pleased  to  receive  it,  made  preparation 
of  pipes  and  rum  and  water,  and  awaited  his  visitor  in  the 
back  parlor.  At  the  hour  of  eight,  a  deep  lowing,  as  of  a 
nautical  Bull,  outside  the  shop-door,  succeeded  by  the  knock- 
ing of  a  stick  on  the  panel,  announced  to  the  listening  ear  of 
Captain  Cuttle,  that  Bunsby  was  alongside :  whom  he  instantly 
admitted,  shaggy  and  loose,  and  with  his  stolid  mahogany 
visage,  as  usual,  appearing  to  have  no  consciousness  of  any- 
thing before  it,  but  to  t-e  attentively  observing  something  that 
was  taking  place  in  quite  another  part  of  the  world. 

"  Bunsby,"  said  the  Captain,  grasping  him  by  the  hand, 
"What  cheer,  my  lad,  what  cheer  ?  " 

"  Shipmet,"  replied  the  voice  within  Bunsby,  unaccora- 
panied  by  any  sign  on  the  part  of  the  Commander  himseli, 
"  Hearty,  hearty." 

"  Bunsby !  "  said  the  Captain,  rendering  irrepressible  hom- 
age to  his  genius,  "  here  you  are  !  a  man  as  can  give  an  opinion 
as  is  brighter  than  di'monds — and  give  me  the  lad  with  the 
tarry  trousers  as  shines  to  me  like  di'monds  bright,  for  which 
you'll  overhaul  the  Stanfell's  Budget,  and  when  found  make 
a  note.  Here  you  are,  a  man  as  gave  an  opinion  in  this  here 
very  place,  that  has  come  true,  every  letter  on  it."  which  the 
Captain  sincerely  believed. 

"  Ay,  ay  ?  "  growled  Bunsby. 

"  Every  letter,"  said  the  Captain. 

"  For  why  ? "  growled  Bunsby,  looking  at  his  friend  for  the 
first  time.  "  Which  way  ?  If  so,  why  not  ?  Therefore."  With 
these  oracular  words — they  seemed  almost  to  make  the  Cap- 
tain giddy  ;  they  launched  him  upon  such  a  sea  of  speculation 
and  conjecture — the  sage  submitted  to  be  helped  off  with  his 
pilot-coat,  and  accompanied  his  friend  into  the  back  parlor, 
where  his  hand  presently  alighted  on  the  rum-bottle,  from 
which,  he  brewed  a  stiff  glass  of   grog ;   and  presently  after 


-28  DOMBEY  AND  Sou. 

wards  on  a  pipe,  which  he  filled.  lighted,  and  began  to 
smoke. 

Captain  Cuttle,  imitating  his  visitor  in  the  matter  of  these 
particulars,  though  the  rapt  and  imperturbable  manner  of  the 
great  Commander  was  far  above  his  powers,  sat  in  the  opposite 
corner  of  the  fireside,  observing  him  respectfully,  and  as  if  he 
waited  for  some  encouragement  or  expression  of  curiosity  on 
Bunsby's  part  which  should  lead  him  to  his  own  affairs.  But 
as  the  mahogany  philosopher  gave  no  evidence  of  being 
sentient  of  anything  but  warmth  and  tobacco,  except  once, 
when  taking  his  pipe  from  his  lips  to  make  room  for  his  glass, 
he  incidentally  remarked  with  exceeding  gruffness,  that  his 
name  was  Jack  Bunsby  —  a  declaration  that  presented  but 
small  opening  for  conversation — the  Captain  bespeaking  his 
attention  in  a  short  complimentary  exordium,  narrated  the 
whole  history  of  Uncle  Sol's  departure,  with  the  change  it  had 
produced  in  his  own  life  and  fortunes  ;  and  concluded  by 
placing  the  packet  on  the  table. 

After  a  long  pause,  Mr.  Bunsby  nodded  his  head. 

"  Open  ?  "  said  the  Captain. 

Bunsby  nodded  again. 

The  Captain  accordingly  broke  the  seal,  and  disclosed  to 
view  two  folded  papers,  of  which  he  severally  read  the  indorse- 
ments, thus  :  "  Last  Will  and  Testament  of  Solomon  Gills." 
"  Letter  for  Ned  Cuttle." 

Bunsby,  with  his  eye  on  the  coast  of  Greenland,  seemed  to 
listen  for  the  contents.  The  Captain  therefore  hemmed  to 
clear  his  throat,  and  read  the  letter  aloud. 

"  '  My  dear  Ned  Cuttle.  When  I  left  home  for  the  West 
Indies ' " 

Here  the  Captain  stopped,  and  looked  hard  at  Bunsby,  who 
looked  fixedly  at  the  coast  of  Greenland. 

— " '  in  forlorn  search  of  intelligence  of  my  dear  boy,  I 
knew  that  if  you  were  acquainted  with  my  design,  you  would 
thwart  it,  or  accompany  me  ;  and  therefore  I  kept  it  secret.  If 
you  ever  read  this  letter,  Ned,  I  am  likely  to  be  dead.  You 
will  easily  forgive  an  old  friend's  folly  then,  and  will  feel  for 
the  restlessness  and  uncertainty  in  which  he  wandered  away  on 
such  a  wild  voyage.  So  no  more  of  that.  I  have  little  hope 
that  my  poor  boy  will  ever  read  these  words,  or  gladden  your 
eyes  with  the  sight  of  his  frank  face  any  more.'  No,  no  ;  no 
more,"  said  Captain  Cuttle,  sorrowfully  meditating;  "no  more. 
There  he  lays  all  his  days — " 

Mr.  Bunsby,  who  had  a  musical  ear,  suddenly  bellowed,  "  In 


FURTHER  ADVENTURES  OF  CARTA JN  CUTTLE.    529 

the  Bays  of  Biscay,  O  ! "  which  so  affected  the  good  Captain, 
as  an  appropriate  tribute  to  departed  worth,  that  he  shook  hira 
by  the  hand  in  acknowledgment,  and  was  fain  to  wipe  his  eyes. 
"Well,  well  !  "  said  the  Captain  with  a  sigh,  as  the  Lament 
of  Bunsby  ceased  to  ring  and  vibrate  in  the  skylight.  "  Afflic- 
tion sore,  long  time  he  bore,  and  let  us  overhaul  the  woUume, 
and  there  find  it." 

"  Physicians,"  observed  Bunsby,  "was  in  vain." 
"  Ay,  ay,  to  be  sure,"  said  the  Captain,  "  what's  the  good 
o'  them  in  two  or  three  Imndred  fathoms  o'  water  ! "  Then  re- 
turning to  the  letter,  he  read  on  : — " '  But  if  he  should  be  by, 
when  it  is  opened  ;'  "  the  Captain  involuntarily  looked  round, 
and  shook  his  head  ;  " '  or  should  know  of  it  at  any  other 
time  ; '  "  the  Captain  shook  his  head  again  ;  "  '  my  blessing  on 
him  !  In  case  the  accompanying  paper  is  not  legally  written, 
it  matters  very  little,  for  there  is  no  one  interested  but  you  and 
he,  and  my  plain  wish  Is,  that  if  he  is  living  he  should  have 
what  little  there  may  be,  and  if  (as  I  fear)  otherwise,  that  yoa 
should  have  it,  Ned.  You  will  respect  my  wish,  I  know.  God 
bless  you  for  it,  and  for  all  your  friendliness  besides,  to  Solo- 
mon Gills.'  Bunsby  !  "  said  the  Captain,  appealing  to  him 
solemnly,  "  what  do  you  make  of  this  ?  There  you  sit,  a  man 
as  has  had  his  head  broke  from  infancy  up'ards,  and  has  got  a 
new  opinion  into  it  at  every  seam  as  has  been  opened.  Now, 
what  do  you  make  o'  this  ?  " 

"  If  so  be,"  returned  Bunsby,  with  unusual  promptitude,  "  as 
he's  dead,  my  opinion  is  he  won't  come  back  no  more.  If  so 
be  as  he  be  alive,  my  opinion  is  he  will.  Do  I  say  he  will  ?  No. 
Why  not  ?  Because  the  bearings  of  this  obserwation  lays  in 
the  application  on  it." 

"  Bunsby  !  "  said  Captain  Cuttle,  who  would  seem  to  have 
estimated  the  value  of  his  distinguished  friend's  opinions  in 
proportion  to  the  immensity  of  the  difficulty  he  experienced  in 
making  anything  out  of  them ;  "  Bunsby,"  said  the  Captain, 
quite  confounded  by  admiration,  "you  carry  a  weight  of 
mind  easy,  as  would  swamp  one  of  my  tonnage  soon.  But  in 
regard  o'  this  here  will,  I  don't  mean  to  take  no  steps  towards 
the  property — Lord  forbid  ! — except  to  keep  it  for  a  more  right- 
ful owner ;  and  I  hope  yet  as  the  rightful  owner,  Sol  Gills,  is 
living  and'll  come  back,  strange  as  it  is  that  he  ain't  forwarded  no 
despatches.  Now,  what  is  your  opinion,  Bunsby,  as  to  stowing 
of  these  here  papers  away  again,  and  marking  outside  as  they 
was  opened,  such  a  day,  in  presence  of  John  Bunsby  and 
Ed'ard  Cuttle  ? " 
))8 


•^d  J^OAfBEY  AND  SOI^. 

Eunsby,  aescrying  no  objection,  on  the  coast  of  Greenland 
or  elsewhere,  to  this  proposal,  it  was  carried  into  execution  ;  and 
that  great  man,  bringing  his  eye  into  the  present  for  a  moment, 
affixed  his  sign  manual  to  the  cover,  totally  abstaining,  with  char- 
acteristic modesty,  from  the  use  of  capital  letters.  Captain 
Cuttle,  having  attached  his  own  left-handed  signature,  and 
locked  up  the  packet  in  the  iron  safe,  entreated  his  guest  to 
mix  another  glass  and  smoke  another  pipe ;  and  doing  the  like 
himself,  fell  a  musing  over  the  fire  on  the  possible  fortunes  of 
the  poor  old  Instrument-maker. 

And  now  a  surprise  occurred,  so  overwhelming  and  terrific 
that  Captain  Cuttle,  unsupported  by  the  presence  of  Bunsby, 
must  have  sunk  beneath  it,  and  been  a  lost  man  from  that  fatal 
hour. 

How  the  Captain,  even  in  the  satisfaction  of  admitting  such 
a  guest,  could  have  only  shut  the  door,  and  not  locked  it,  ot 
which  negligence  he  was  undoubtedly  guilty,  is  one  of  those 
questions  that  must  for  ever  remain  mere  points  of  speculation, 
or  vague  charges  against  destiny.  But  by  that  unlocked  door, 
at  this  quiet  moment,  did  the  fell  MacStinger  dash  into  the 
parlor,  bringing  Alexander  MacStinger  in  her  parental  arms, 
and  confusion  and  vengeance  (not  to  mention  Juliana  MacStin- 
ger, and  tlie  sweet  child's  brother,  Charles  MacStinger,  popu- 
larly known  about  the  scenes  of  his  youthful  sports,  as  Chow- 
ley)  in  her  train.  She  came  so  swiftly  and  so  silently,  like  a 
rushing  air  from  the  neighborhood  of  the  East  India  Docks, 
that  Captain  Cuttle  found  himself  in  the  very  act  of  sitting  look- 
ing at  her,  before  the  calm  face  with  which  he  had  been  medi- 
tating, changed  to  one  of  horror  and  dismay. 

But  the  moment  Captain  Cuttle  understood  the  full  ex- 
tent of  his  misfortune,  self-preservation  dictated  an  attempt  at 
flight.  Darting  at  the  little  door  which  opened  from  the  parlor 
on  the  steep  little  range  of  cellar-steps,  the  Captain  made  a 
rush,  head-foremost,  at  the  latter,  like  a  man  indifferent  to 
bruises  and  contusions,  who  only  sought  to  hide  himself  in  the 
bowels  of  the  earth.  \n  this  gallant  effort  he  would  probably 
have  succeeded,  but  for  the  afieclionate  dispositions  of  Juliana 
and  Chowley,  who  pinning  him  by  the  legs — one  of  those  dear 
children  holding  on  to  each — claimed  him  as  their  friend,  with 
lamentable  cries.  In  the  mean  time,  Mrs.  MacStinger,  who 
never  entered  upon  any  action  of  importance  without  pre 
Viously  inverting  Alexander  MacStinger,  to  bring  him  within 
range  of  a  brisk  battery  of  slaps,  antl  then  sitting  him  down  to 
cool  as  the  reader  first  brjicld  him,  perforHicd  tliat  solemn  rite, 


FURTHER  ADVENTURES  OF  CAPTAIN  CUTTLE. 


531 


as  if  on  this  occasion  it  were  a  sacrifice  to  the  Furies ;  and 
having  deposited  the  victim  on  the  floor,  made  at  the  Captain 
with  a  strength  of  purpose  that  appeared  to  threaten  scratches 
to  the  interposing  IJunsby. 

The  cries  of  the  two  elder  MacStingers,  and  the  wailing  of 
young  Alexander,  who  may  be  said  to  have  passed  a  piebald 
childhood,  forasmuch  as  he  was  black  in  the  face  during  one 
half  of  that  fairy  period  of  existence,  combined  to  make  this 
visitation  the  more  awful.  But  when  silence  reigned  again, 
and  the  Captain,  in  a  violent  perspiration,  stood  meekly  looking 
at  Mrs.  MacStinger,  its  terrors  were  at  their  height. 

"  Oh,  Cap'en  Cuttle,  Cap'en  Cuttle  !  "  said  Mrs.  MacStin- 
ger, making  her  chin  rigid,  and  shaking  it  in  unison  with  what, 
but  for  the  weakness  of  her  sex,  might  be  described  as  her  fist. 
"  Oh,  Cap'en  Cuttle,  Cap'en  Cuttle,  do  you  dare  to  look  me  in 
the  face  and  not  be  struck  down  in  the  berth  ! " 

The  Captain,  who  looked  anything  but  daring,  feebly  mut- 
tered "  Stand  by  !  " 

"  Oh  I  was  a  weak  and  trusting  Fool  when  I  took  you  under  my 
roof,  Cap'en  Cuttle,  I  was  !  "  cried  Mrs.  MacStinger.  To  think 
of  the  benefits  Fve  showered  on  that  man,  and  the  way  in  which  I 
brought  my  children  up  to  love  and//onor  him  as  if  he  was  a  father 
to  'ern,  when  there  an't  a  'ouse-keeper,  no  nor  a  lodger  in  our 
street,  don't  know  that  I  lost  money  by  that  man,  and  by  his 
guzzlings  and  his  muzzlings  " — Mrs.  MacStinger  used  the  last 
word  for  the  joint  sake  of  alliteration  and  aggravation,  rather 
than  for  the  expression  of  any  idea — "  and  when  they  cried  out 
one  and  all,  shame  upon  him  for  putting  upon  an  industrious 
woman,  up  early  and  late  for  the  good  of  her  young  family,  and 
keeping  her  poor  place  so  clean  that  a  individual  might  have 
ate  his  dinner,  yes,  and  his  tea  too,  if  he  was  so  disposed,  off 
any  one  of  the  floors  or  stairs,  in  spite  of  all  his  guzzlings  and 
his  muzzlings,  such  was  the  care  and  pains  bestowed  upon 
him!" 

Mrs.  MacStinger  stopped  to  fetch  her  breath;  and  her 
face  flushed  with  triumph  in  this  second  happy  introduction  o£ 
Captain  Cuttle's  muzzlings. 

"  And  he  runs  awa-a-a-ay  !  "  cried  Mrs.  MacStinger,  with  a 
lengthening  out  of  the  last  syllable  that  made  the  unfortunate 
Captain  regard  himself  as  the  meanest  of  men  ;  "  and  keeps 
away  a  twelvemonth !  From  a  woman  !  Sitch  is  his  conscience  ! 
He  hasn't  the  courage  to  meet  her  hi-i-i-igh ; "  long  syllable 
again  ;  "  but  steals  away,  like  a  felion.  Why,  if  that  baby  of 
mine,"  said  Mrs.  MacStinger,  with  sudden  rapidity,  "  was  to 


532 


DOMHEY  AND  SOiV. 


offer  to  go  and  steal  away,  I'd  do  my  duty  as  a  mother  by  hinv 
till  he  was  covered  with  wales  !  " 

The  young  Alexander,  interpreting  this  into  a  positive 
promise,  to  be  shortly  redeemed,  tumbled  over  with  fear  and 
grief,  and  lay  upon  the  floor,  exhibiting  the  soles  of  his  shoes 
and  making  such  a  deafening  outcry,  that  Mrs.  MacStinger 
found  it  necessary  to  take  him  ujd  in  her  arms,  where  she 
quieted  him,  ever  and  anon,  as  he  broke  out  again,  by  a  shake 
that  seemed  enough  to  loosen  his  teeth. 

"  A  pretty  sort  of  a  man  is  Cap'en  Cuttle,"  said  Mrs.  Mac- 
Stinger,  with  a  sharp  stress  on  the  first  syllable  of  the  Captain's 
name,  "  to  take  on  for — and  to  lose  sleep  for — and  to  faint 
along  of — and  to  think  dead  forsooth — and  to  go  up  and  down 
the  blessed  town  like  a  mad  woman,  asking  questions  after  ! 
Oh,  a  pretty  sort  of  a  man  !  Ha  ha  ha  ha  !  He's  worth  all 
that  trouble  and  distress  of  mind  and  much  more.  Thai's 
nothing,  bless  you  !  Ha  ha  ha  ha  !  Cap'en  Cuttle,"  said  Mrs. 
MacStinger,  with  severe  re-action  in  her  voice  and  manner,  "  I 
wish  to  know  if  you're  a-coming  home." 

The  frightened  Captain  looked  into  his  hat,  as  if  he  saw 
nothing  for  it  but  to  put  it  on,  and  give  himself  up. 

"  Cap'en  Cuttle,"  repeated  Mrs.  MacStinger,  in  the  same 
determined  manner,  "  I  wish  to  know  if  you're  a-coming  home, 
Sir." 

The  Captain  seemed  quite  ready  to  go,  but  faintly  suggested 
something  to  the  effect  of  "  not  making  so  much  noise  about 
it." 

"Ay,  ay,  ay,"  said  Bunsby,  in  a  soothing  tone.  "Awast, 
my  lass,  awast !  " 

"  And  who  may  vou  be,  if  you  please  ! "  retorted  Mrs.  Mac- 
Stinger, with  chaste  loftiness.  "  Did  you  ever  lodge  at  Number 
Nine,  Brig  Place,  Sir.?  My  memory  may  be  bad,  but  not  with 
me,  I  think.  There  was  a  Mrs.  Jollson  lived  at  Number  Nine 
before  me,  and  perhaps  you're  mistaking  me  for  her.  That  is 
my  only  ways  of  accounting  for  your  familiarity,  Sir." 

"  Come,  come,  my  lass,  awast,  awast !  "  said  Bunsby. 

Captain  Cuttle  could  hardly  believe,  it,  even  of  this  great 
man,  though  he  saw  it  done  with  his  waking  eyes  ;  but  Bunsby, 
advancing  boldly,  put  his  shaggy  blue  arm  round  Mrs.  Mac- 
Stinger, and  so  softened  her  by  his  magic  way  of  doing  it,  and 
by  these  few  words — he  said  no  more — that  she  melted  into 
tears,  after  looking  upon  him  for  a  few  moments,  and  observed 
that  a  child  might  conquer  her  now,  she  was  so  low  in  hej 
pourage. 


FURTHER  ADVENTURES  OF  CAPTAIN  CUTTLE.     533 

Speechless  and  utterly  amazed,  the  Captain  saw  him  gradu- 
ally persuade  this  inexorable  woman  into  the  shop,  return  for 
rum  and  water  and  a  candle,  take  them  to  her,  and  pacify  her 
without  appearing  to  utter  one  word.  Presently  he  looked  in 
with  his  pilot-coat  on,  and  said,  "Cuttle,  I'm  a-going  to  act  as 
convoy  home  ;  "  and  Captain  Cuttle,  more  to  his  confusion  than 
if  he  had  been  put  in  irons  himself,  for  safe  transport  to  Brig 
Place,  saw  the  family  pacifically  filing  off,  with  Mrs.  MacStinger 
at  their  head.  He  had  scarcely  time  to  take  down  his  canister, 
and  stealthily  convey  some  money  into  the  hands  of  Juliana 
MacStinger,  his  former  favorite,  and  Chowley,  who  had  the 
claim  upon  him  that  he  was  naturally  of  a  maritime  build, 
before  the  Midshipman  was  abandoned  by  them  all  ;  and 
Bunsby  whispering  that  he'd  carry  on  smart,  and  hail  Ned 
Cuttle  again  before  he  went  aboard,  shut  the  door  upon  him- 
self, as  the  last  member  of  the  party. 

Some  uneasy  ideas  that  he  must  be  walking  in  his  sleep,  or 
that  he  had  been  troubled  with  phantoms,  and  not  a  family  of 
flesh  and  blood,  beset  the  Captain  at  first,  when  he  went  back 
to  the  little  parlor,  and  found  himself  alone.  Illimitable  faith 
in,  and  immeasurable  admiration  of,  the  Commander  of  the 
Cautious  Clara,  succeeded,  and  threw  the  Captain  into  a  won- 
dering trance. 

Still,  as  time  wore  on,  and  Bunsby  failed  to  reappear,  the 
Captain  began  to  entertain  uncomfortable  doubts  of  another 
kind.  Whether  Bunsby  had  been  artfully  decoyed  to  Brig 
Place,  and  was  there  detained  in  safe  custody  as  hostage  for 
his  friend  ;  in  which  case  it  would  become  the  Captain,  as  a 
man  of  honor,  to  release  him,  by  the  sacrifice  of  his  own  liberty. 
Whether  he  had  been  attacked  and  defeated  by  Mrs.  Mac- 
Stinger, and  was  ashamed  to  show  himself  after  his  discomfiture. 
Whether  Mrs.  MacStinger,  thinking  better  of  it,  in  the  uncer- 
tainty of  her  temper,  had  turned  back  to  board  the  Midshipman 
again,  and  Bunsby,  pretending  to  conduct  her  by  a  short  cut, 
was  endeavoring  to  lose  the  family  amid  the  wilds  and  savage 
places  of  the  City.  Above  all,  what  it  would  behove  him.  Cap- 
tain Cuttle,  to  do,  in  case  of  his  hearing  no  more,  either  of  the 
MacStingers  or  of  Bunsby,  which,  in  these  wonderful  and  un- 
foreseen conjunctions  of  events,  might  possibly  happen. 

He  debated  all  this  until  he  was  tired  ;  and  still  no  Bunsby. 
He  made  up  his  bed  under  the  counter,  all  ready  for  turning 
in  ;  and  still  no  Bunsby.  At  length,  when  the  Captain  had 
given  him  up,  for  that  night  at  least,  and  had  begun  to  undress, 
the  sound  of  approaching  wheels  was  heard,  and,  stopping  at 
the  door,  was  succeeded  by  Bunsby's  hail. 


534  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

The  Captain  trembled  to  think  that  Mrs.  MacStinger  wafl 
not  to  be  got  rid  of,  and  had  been  brought  back  in  a  coach. 

But  no.  Bunsby  was  accompanied  by  nothing  but  a  large 
box,  which  he  hauled  into  the  shop  with  his  own  hands,  and  as 
soon  as  he  had  hauled  in,  sat  upon.  Captain  Cuttle  knew  it 
for  the  chest  he  had  left  at  Mrs.  MacStinger's  house,  and  look- 
ing, candle  in  hand,  at  Bunsby  attentively,  believed  that  he  was 
three  sheets  in  the  wind,  or,  in  plain  words,  drunk.  It  was 
difficult,  however,  to  be  sure  of  this  ;  the  Commander  having 
no  trace  of  expression  in  his  face  when  sober. 

"  Cuttle,"  said  the  Commander,  getting  off  the  chest,  and 
opening  the  lid,  "  are  these  here  your  traps  }  " 

Captain  Cuttle  looked  in  and  identified  his  property. 

"  Done  pretty  taut  and  trim,  hey  shipmet .? "  said  Bunsby. 

The  grateful  and  bewildered  Captain  grasped  him  by  the 
hand,  and  was  launching  into  a  reply  expressive  of  his  aston- 
ished feelings,  when  Bunsby  disengaged  himself  by  a  jerk  of 
his  wrist,  and  seemed  to  make  an  effort  to  wink  with  his  re- 
volving eye,  the  only  effect  of  which  attempt,  in  his  condition, 
was  nearly  to  overbalance  him.  He  then  abruptly  opened  the 
door,  and  shot  away  to  rejoin  the  Cautious  Clara  with  all 
speed — supposed  to  be  his  invariable  custom,  whenever  he 
considered  he  had  made  a  point. 

As  it  was  not  his  humor  to  be  often  sought.  Captain  Cuttle 
decided  not  to  go  or  send  to  him  next  day,  or  until  he  should 
make  his  gracious  pleasure  known  in  such  wise,  or  failing  that, 
until  some  little  time  should  have  elapsed.  The  Captain, 
therefore,  renewed  his  solitary  life  next  morning,  and  thought 
profoundly,  many  mornings,  noons,  and  nights,  of  old  Sol  Gills, 
and  Bunsby's  sentiments  concerning  him,  and  the  hopes  there 
were  of  his  return.  Much  of  such  thinking  strengthened  Cap- 
tain Cuttle's  hopes;  and  he  humored  them  and  himself  by 
watching  for  the  Instrument-maker  at  the  door  as  he  ventured 
to  do  now,  in  his  strange  liberty — and  setting  his  chair  in  its 
place,  and  arranging  the  little  parlor  as  it  used  to  be,  in  case 
he  should  come  home  unexpectedly.  He  likewise,  in  his 
thoughtfulness,  took  down  a  certain  little  miniature  of  Walter 
as  a  schoolboy,  from  its  accustomed  nail,  lest  it  should  shock 
the  old  man  on  his  return.  The  Captain  had  his  present- 
iments, too,  sometimes,  that  he  would  come  on  such  a  day ; 
and  one  particular  Sunday,  even  ordered  a  double  allowance 
of  dinner,  lie  was  so  sanguine.  But  come,  old  Solomon  did 
not  ;  and  still  the  nciglibors  noticed  how  the  seafaring  man  in 
the  glazed  hat,  stood  at  the  shop  door  of  an  evening,  looking 
up  and  dowTi  tiife  street.. 


DOMESTIC  RELATIONS.  53 J 


CHAPTER  XL. 

DOMESTIC    RELATIONS. 

It  was  not  in  the  nature  of  things  that  a  man  of  Mr.  Donv 
bey's  mood,  opposed  to  such  a  spirit  as  he  had  raised  against 
himself,  should  be  softened  in  the  imperious  asperity  of  his 
temper  ;  or  that  the  cold  hard  armor  of  pride  in  which  he  lived 
encased,  should  be  made  more  flexible  by  constant  collision 
with  haughty  scorn  and  defiance.  It  is  the  curse  of  such  a 
nature — it  is  a  main  part  of  the  heavy  retribution  on  itself  it 
bears  within  itself — that  while  deference  and  concession  swell 
its  evil  qualities,  and  are  the  food  it  grows  upon,  resistance  and 
a  questioning  of  its  exacting  claims,  foster  it  too,  no  less.  The 
evil  that  is  in  it,  finds  equally  its  means  of  growth  and  propaga- 
tion in  opposites.  It  draws  support  and  life  from  sweets  and 
bitters  ;  bowed  down  before,  or  unacknowledged,  it  still  en- 
slaves the  breast  in  which  it  has  its  throne  ;  and,  worshipped 
or  rejected,  is  as  hard  a  master  as  the  Devil  in  dark  fables. 

Towards  his  first  wife,  Mr.  Dombey,  in  his  cold  and  lofty 
arrogance,  had  borne  himself  like  the  removed  Being  he  almost 
conceived  himself  to  be.  He  had  been  "  Mr.  Dombey  "  with 
her  when  she  first  saw  him,  and  he  was  "  Mr.  Dombey  "  when 
she  died.  He  had  asserted  his  greatness  during  their  whole 
married  life,  and  she  had  meekly  recognized  it.  He  had  kept 
his  distant  seat  of  state  on  the  top  of  his  throne,  and  she  her 
humble  station  on  its  lowest  step ;  and  much  good  it  had  done 
him,  so  to  live  in  solitary  bondage  to  his  one  idea  !  He  had 
imagined  that  the  proud  character  of  his  second  wife  would 
have  been  added  to  his  own — would  have  merged  into  it,  and 
exalted  his  greatness.  He  had  pictured  himself  haughtier 
than  ever,  with  Edith's  haughtiness  subservient  to  his.  He 
had  never  entertained  the  possibility  of  its  arraying  itself 
against  him.  And  now,  when  he  found  it  rising  in  his  path  at 
every  step  and  turn  of  his  daily  life,  fixing  its  cold,  defiant,  and 
contemptuous  face  upon  him,  this  pride  of  his,  instead  of 
withering,  or  hanging  down  its  head  beneath  the  shock,  put 
forth  new  shoots,  became  more  concentrated  and  intense,  more 
gloomy,  sullen,  irksome,  and  unyielding,  than  it  had  ever  been 
before. 

Who  wears  such  armor,  too,  bears  with  him  ever  another 
heavy  retribution.     It  is  of  proof  against  conciliation,  loye^  and 


^^6  DOMBEY  AXD  SON. 

confidence  !  a;;^^inst  all  gentle  sympathy  from  without,  al\  trust; 
all  tenderness,  all  soft  emotion  ;  but  to  deep  stabs  in  the  self- 
love,  it  is  as  vulnerable  as  the  bare  breast  to  steel;  and  such 
tormenting  festers  rankle  there,  as  follow  on  no  other  wounds, 
no,  though  dealt  with  the  mailed  hand  of  Pride  itself,  on 
weaker  pride,  disarmed  and  thrown  down. 
,  Such  wounds  were  his.  He  felt  them  sharply,  in  the  sol- 
itude of  liis  old  rooms  ;  whither  he  now  began  often  to  retire 
again,  and  pass  long  solitary  hours.  It  seemed  his  fate  to  be 
ever  proud  and  powerful ;  ever  humbled  and  powerless  where 
he  would  be  most  strong.  Who  seemed  fated  to  work  out  that 
doom  } 

Who  ?  Who  was  it  who  could  win  his  wife  as  she  had  won 
his  boy!  Who  was  it  who  had  shown  him  that  new  victory,  as 
he  sat  in  the  dark  corner  !  Who  was  it  whose  least  word  did 
what  his  utmost  means  could  not  ?  Who  was  it  who,  unaided 
by  his  love,  regard  or  notice,  thrived  and  grew  beautiful  when 
those  so  aided  died  !  Who  could  it  be,  but  the  same  child  at 
whom  he  had  often  glanced  uneasily  in  her  motherless  infancy, 
with  a  kind  of  dread,  lest  he  might  come  to  hate  her ;  and  of 
whom  his  foreboding  was  fulfilled,  for  he  did  hate  her  in  his 
heart. 

Yes,  and  he  would  have  it  hatred,  and  he  made  it  hatred, 
though  some  sparkles  of  the  light  in  which  she  had  appeared 
before  him  on  the  memorable  night  of  his  return  home  with  his 
Bride,  occasionally  hung  about  her  still.  He  knew  now  that 
she  was  beautiful  ;  he  did  not  dispute  that  she  was  graceful 
and  winning,  and  that  in  the  bright  dawn  of  her  womanhood 
she  had  come  upon  him,  a  surprise.  But  he  turned  even  this 
against  her.  In  his  sullen  and  unwholesome  brooding,  the 
unhappy  man,  with  a  dull  perception  of  his  alienation  from  all 
hearts,  and  a  vague  yearning  for  what  he  had  all  his  life  re- 
pelled, made  a  distorted  picture  of  his  rights  and  wrongs,  and 
justified  himself  with  it  against  her.  'I'he  worthier  she"^  prom- 
ised to  be  of  him,  the  greater  claim  he  was  disposed  to  ante- 
date upon  her  duty  and  submission.  When  had  she  ever 
shown  him  duty  and  submission.?  Did  she  grace  his  life — or 
Edith's  "i  Had  her  attractions  been  manifested  first  to  him — or 
Edith?  Why,  he  and  she  had  never  been,  from  her  birth,  like 
father  and  child !  They  had  always  been  estranged.  She 
had  crossed  him  every  way  and  ever)'where.  She  was  leagued 
against  him  now.  Her  very  beauty  softened  natures  that  were 
obdurate  to  him,  and  insulted  him  with  an  unnatural  triumpli. 

It  may  have  been  that  in  all  this  there  were  mutlerings  of 


DOI\/EST/C  KELATIONS.  r^y 

an  awakened  feeling- in  his  breast,  however  selfishly  aroused  by 
his  jDOsition  of  disadvantage,  in  comparison  with  what  she 
might  have  made  his  life.  But  he  silenced  the  distant  thunder 
with  the  rolling  of  his  sea  of  pride.  He  would  bear  nothing 
but  his  pride.  And  in  his  pride,  a  heap  of  inconsistency,  and 
miser}',  and  self-inflicted  torment,  he  hated  her. 

To  the  moody,  stubborn,  sullen  demon,  that  possessed  him, 
his  wife  opposed  her  different  pride  in  its  full  force.  They 
never  could  have  led  a  happy  life  together  ;  but  nothing  could 
have  made  it  more  unhappy,  than  the  wilful  and  determined 
warfare  of  such  elements.  His  pride  was  set  upon  maintaining 
his  magnificent  supremacy,  and  forcing  recognition  of  it  from 
her.  She  would  have  been  racked  to  death,  and  turned  but 
her  haughty  glance  of  calm  inflexible  disdain  upon  him,  to  the 
last.  Such  recognition  from  Edith  !  He  little  knew  through 
what  a  storm  and  struggle  she  had  been  driven  onward  to  the 
crowning  honor  of  his  hand.  He  little  knew  how  much  she 
thought  she  had  conceded,  when  she  suffered  him  to  call  her 
wife. 

Mr.  Dombey  was  resolved  to  show  her  that  he  was  supreme. 
There  must  be  no  will  but  his.  Proud  he  desired  that  she 
should  be,  but  she  must  be  proud  for,  not  against  him.  As  he 
sat  alone,  hardening,  he  would  often  hear  her  go  out  and  come 
home,  treading  the  round  of  London  life  with  no  more  heed  of 
his  liking  or  disliking,  pleasure  or  displeasure,  than  if  he  had 
been  her  groom.  Her  cold  supreme  indifference — his  own 
unquestioned  attribute  usurped — stung  him  more  than  any 
other  kind  of  treatment  could  have  done  ;  and  he  determined 
to  bend  her  to  his  magnificent  and  stately  will. 

He  had  been  long  communing  with  these  thoughts,  when 
one  night  he  sought  her  in  her  own  apartment,  after  he  had 
heard  her  return  home  late.  She  was  alone,  in  her  brilliant 
dress,  and  had  but  that  moment  come  from  her  mother's  room. 
Her  face  was  melancholy  and  pensive,  when  became  upon  her  ; 
but  it  marked  him  at  the  door  ;  for,  glancing  at  the  mirror  be- 
fore it,  he  saw  immediately,  as  in  a  picture-frame,  the  knitted 
brow,  and  darkened  beauty  that  he  knew  so  well. 

"  Mrs.  Dombey,"  he  said,  entering,  "  I  must  beg  leave  to 
have  a  few  words  with  you." 

"To-morrow,"  she  replied. 

''There  is  no  time  like  the  present,  Madam,"  he  returned. 
"  You  mistake  your  position.  I  am  used  to  choose  my  owa 
times  ;  not  to  have  them  chosen  for  me.  I  think  you  scarcely 
understand  who  and  what  I  am,  Mrs.  Dombej^." 


g28  DOM  BEY  AND  SON. 

"  I  think,"  she  answered,  "  that  I  understand  you  very 
well." 

She  looked  upon  him  as  she  said  so,  and  folding  her  white 
arms,  sparkling  with  gold  and  gems,  upon  her  swelling  breast, 
turned  away  her  eyes. 

If  she  had  been  less  handsome,  and  less  stately  in  her  cold 
composure,  she  might  not  have  had  the  power  of  impressing  him 
with  the  sense  of  disadvantage  that  penetrated  through  his  ut- 
most pride.  But  she  had  the  power,  and  he  felt  it  keenly.  He 
glanced  round  the  room  :  saw  how  the  splendid  means  of  per- 
sonal adornment,  and  the  luxuries  of  dress,  were  scattered  here 
and  there,  and  disregarded ;  not  in  mere  caprice  and  careless- 
ness (or  so  he  thought),  but  in  a  steadfast,  haughty  disregard 
of  costly  things  :  and  felt  it  more  and  more.  Chaplets  of 
flowers,  plumes  of  feathers,  jewels,  laces,  silks  and  satins  ;  look 
■where  he  would,  he  saw  riches,  despised,  poured  out,  and  made 
of  no  account.  The  very  diamonds — a  marriage  gift — that  rose 
and  fell  impatiently  upon  her  bosom,  seemed  to  pant  to  break 
the  chain  that  clasped  them  round  her  neck,  and  roll  down  on 
the  floor  where  she  might  tread  upon  them. 

He  felt  his  disadvantage,  and  he  showed  it.  Solemn  and 
strange  among  this  wealth  of  color  and  voluptuous  glitter,  strange 
and  constrained  towards  its  haughty  mistress,  whose  repellent 
beauty  it  repeated,  and  presented  all  around  him,  as  in  so  many 
fragments  of  a  mirror,  he  was  conscious  of  embarrassment  and 
awkwardness.  Nothing  that  ministered  to  her  disdainful  self- 
possession  could  fail  to  gall  him.  Galled  and  irritated  with 
himself,  he  sat  down,  and  went  on  in  no  improved  humor  : 

"  Mrs.  Dombey,  it  is  very  necessary  that  there  should  be 
some  understanding  arrived  at  between  us.  Your  conduct  does 
not  please  me.  Madam." 

She  merely  glanced  at  him  again,  and  again  averted  her 
eyes  ;  but  she  might  have  spoken  for  an  hour,  and  expressed 
less. 

"  I  repeat,  Mrs.  Dombey,  does  not  please  me.  I  hav« 
already  taken  occasion  to  request  that  it  may  be  corrected.  I 
now  insist  upon  it." 

*'  You  chose  a  fitting  occasion  for  your  first  remonstrance, 
Sir,  and  you  adopt  a  fitting  manner  and  a  fitting  word  for  youi 
second.      You  insist!     Towt.'.''" 

"  Madam,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  with  his  most  offensive  air  of 
state,  "  I  have  made  you  my  wife.  You  bear  my  name.  You 
are  associated  with  my  position  and  my  reputation.  1  will  not 
say  that  the  world  in  general  may  be  disposed  to  think  you 


boMksfiC  rela  Tiom  53^ 

honored  by  that  association ;  but  I  will  say  that  I  am  accustomed 
to  '  insist,'  to  my  connections  and  dependents." 

"  Which  may  you  be  pleased  to  consider  me  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Possibly  I  may  think  that  my  wife  should  partake— of  does 
partake,  and  cannot  help  herself — of  both  characters,  Mrs. 
Dombey." 

She  bent  her  eyes  upon  him  steadily,  and  set  her  trembling 
lips.  He  saw  her  bosom  throb,  and  saw  her  face  flush  and  turn 
white.  All  this  he  could  know,  and  did :  but  he  could  not  know 
that  one  word  was  whispering  in  the  deep  recesses  of  her  heart, 
to  keep  her  quiet ;  and  that  the  word  was  Florence. 

Blind  idiot,  rushing  to  a  precipice  !  He  thought  she  stood 
in  awe  of  him  ! 

"  You  are  too  expensive.  Madam,"  said  Mr.  Dombey.  "  You 
a.e  extravagant.  You  waste  a  great  deal  of  money — or  what 
would  be  a  great  deal  in  the  pockets  of  most  gentlemen — in 
cultivating  a  kind  of  society  that  is  useless  to  me,  and,  indeed, 
that  upon  the  whole  is  disagreeable  to  me.  I  have  to  insist 
upon  a  total  change  in  all  these  respects.  I  know  that  in  the 
novelty  of  possessing  a  tithe  of  such  means  as  Fortune  has 
placed  at  your  disposal,  ladies  are  apt  to  run  into  a  sudden  ex- 
treme.  There  has  been  more  than  enough  of  that  extreme.  I 
beg  that  Mrs.  Granger's  very  different  experiences  may  now 
come  to  the  instruction  of  Mrs.  Dombey." 

Still  the  fixed  look,  the  trembling  lips,  the  throbbing  breast, 
the  face  now  crimson  and  now  white ;  and  still  the  deep 
whisper  Florence,  Florence,  speaking  to  her  in  the  beating  of 
her  heart. 

His  insolence  of  self-importance  dilated  as  he  saw  this  alter- 
ation in  her.  Swollen  no  less  by  her  past  scorn  of  him,  and  his 
so  recent  feeling  of  disadvantage,  than  by  her  present  submis- 
sion (as  he  took  it  to  be),  it  became  too  mighty  for  his  breast, 
and  burst  all  bounds.  Why,  who  could  long  resist  his  lofty 
will  and  pleasure  !  He  had  resolved  to  conqvier  her,  and  look 
here! 

"  You  will  further  please.  Madam,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  in 
a  tone  of  sovereign  command,  "  to  understand  distinctly,  that 
I  am  to  be  deferred  to  and  obeyed.  That  I  must  have  a  posi- 
tive show  and  confession  of  deference  before  the  world,  Madam. 
I  am  used  to  this.  I  require  it  as  my  right.  In  short  I  will 
have  it.  I  consider  it  no  unreasonable  return  for  the  worldly 
advancement  that  has  befallen  you  :  and  I  believe  nobody  will 
be  surprised,  either  at  its  being  required  from  you,  or  at  youj 
making  it. — To  Me — To  Me  (  "  he   added,  with  emphasis. 


546  DOMBEY  AND  SOA^. 

No  word  from  her.  No  change  in  her.  Her  eyes  upon 
him. 

"  I  have  learnt  from  your  mother,  Mrs.  Dombey,"  said  Mr. 
Dombey,  with  magisterial  importance,  "  what  no  doubt  you 
know,  namely,  that  Brighton  is  recommended  for  hor  health. 
Mr.  Carker  has  been  so  good " 

She  changed  suddenly.  Her  face  and  bosom  glowed  as  if 
the  red  light  of  an  angry  sunset  had  been  flung  upon  them. 
Not  unobservant  of  the  change,  and  putting  his  own  interpre- 
tation upon  it,  Mr.  Dombey  resumed : 

"  Mr.  Carker  has  been  so  good  as  to  go  down  and  secure  a 
house  there,  for  a  time.  On  the  return  of  the  establishment  to 
London,  I  shall  take  such  steps  for  its  better  management  as  I 
consider  necessary.  One  of  these,  will  be  the  engagement  at 
Brighton  (if  it  is  to  be  effected),  of  a  very  respectable  reduced 
person  there,  a  Mrs.  Pipchin,  formerly  employed  in  a  situation 
of  trust  in  my  family,  to  act  as  housekeeper.  An  establishment 
like  this,  presided  over  but  nominally,  Mrs.  Dombey,  requires  a 
competent  head." 

She  had  changed  her  atcitude  before  he  arrived  at  these 
words,  and  now  sat — still  looking  at  him  fixedly — turning  a 
bracelet  round  and  round  upon  her  arm  :  not  winding  it  about 
with  a  light,  womanly  touch,  but  pressing  and  dragging  it  over 
the  smooth  skin,  until  the  white  limb  showed  a  bar  of  red. 

"I  observed,"  said  Mr.  Dombey — "  and  this  concludes  what 
I  deem  it  necessary  to  say  to  you  at  present,  Mrs.  Dombey — I 
observed  a  moment  ago,  Madam,  that  my  allusion  to  Mr.  Car- 
ker was  received  in  a  peculiar  manner.  On  the  occasion  of  my 
happening  to  point  out  to  you,  before  that  confidential  agent, 
the  objection  I  had  to  your  mode  of  receiving  my  visitors,  you 
were  pleased  to  object  to  his  presence.  You  will  have  to  get 
the  better  of  that  objection.  Madam,  and  to  accustom  yourself 
to  it  very  probably  on  many  similar  occasions  ;  unless  you 
adopt  the  remedy  which  is  in  your  own  hands,  of  giving  me  no 
cause  of  complaint.  Mr.  Carker,"  said  Mr.  Dombey  who,  after 
the  emotion  he  had  just  seen,  set  great  store  by  this  means  of 
reducing  his  proud  wife,  and  who  was  perhaps  sufficiently  will- 
ing to  exhibit  his  power  to  that  gentleman  in  a  new  and  triumph- 
ant aspect,  "  Mr.  Carker  being  in  my  confidence,  Mrs.  Dombey, 
may  very  well  be  in  yours  to  such  an  extent.  I  hope,  Mrs. 
Dombey,"  he  continued  after  a  few  moments,  during  which,  in 
his  increasing  haughtiness,  he  had  improved  on  his  idea,  "  I 
may  not  find  it  necessary  ever  to  intrust  Mr.  Carker  wiili  any 
message  of  objection  or  remonstrance  to  you  ;  but  as  it  would 


DOMESTIC  RELA  TTONS.  g 4^ 

be  derogatory  to  my  position  and  reputation  tc  be  frequently 
holding  trivial  disputes  with  a  lady  upon  whom  I  have  conferred 
tlie  highest  distinction  that  it  is  in  my  power  to  bestow,  I 
shall  not  scruple  to  avail  myself  of  his  services  if  I  see  occa- 
sion." 

"  And  now,"  he  thought,  rising  in  his  moral  magnificence, 
and  rising  a  stiffer  and  more  impenetrable  man  than  ever, 
"  she  knows  me  and  my  resolution." 

The  hand  that  had  so  pressed  the  bracelet  was  laid  heavily 
upon  her  breast,  but  she  looked  at  him  still,  with  an  unaltered 
face,  and  said  in  a  low  voice  : 

"  Wait !     For  God's  sake  !     I  must  speak  to  you." 

Why  did  she  not,  and  what  was  the  inward  struggle  that 
rendered  her  incapable  of  doing  so,  for  minutes,  while,  in  the 
strong  constraint  she  put  upon  her  face,  it  was  as  fixed  as  any 
statue's — looking  upon  him  with  neither  yielding  nor  unyield- 
ing, liking  nor  hatred,  pride  nor  humility :  nothing  but  a 
searching  gaze. 

"  Did  I  ever  tempt  you  to  seek  my  hand  >  Did  I  ever  use 
any  art  to  win  you  t  Was  I  ever  more  conciliating  to  you  when 
you  pursued  me,  than  I  have  been  since  our  marriage  ?  Was 
1  ever  other  to  you  than  I  am  ?  " 

"  It  is  wholly  unnecessary,  Madam,"  said  Mr.  Dombey, 
"to  enter  upon  such  discussions." 

"  Did  you  think  I  loved  you  1  Did  you  know  I  did  not  > 
Did  you  ever  care,  Man  !  for  my  heart,  or  propose  to  yourself 
to  win  the  worthless  thing  t  Was  there  any  poor  pretence  of 
any  in  our  bargain  ?     Upon  your  side,  or  on  mine  t  " 

"These  questions,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "are  all  wide  of  the 
purpose,  Madam." 

She  moved  between  him  and  the  door  to  prevent  his  going 
away,  and  drawing  her  majestic  figure  to  its  height,  looked 
steadily  upon  him  still. 

"  You  answer  each  of  them.  You  answer  me  before  I 
speak,  I  see.  How  can  you  help  it ;  you  who  know  the  miser- 
able truth  as  well  as  I .?  Now,  tell  me.  If  I  loved  you  to 
devotion,  could  I  do  more  than  render  up  my  whole  will  and 
being  to  you,  as  you  have  just  demanded  ?  If  my  heart  were 
pure  and  all  untried,  and  you  its  idol,  could  you  ask  more  ; 
could  you  have  more  .-'  " 

"  Possibly  not.  Madam,"  he  returned  coolly. 

"  You  know  how  different  I  am.  You  see  me  looking  on 
you  now,  and  you  can  read  the  warmth  of  passion  for  you  that 
is  breathing  in  my  face."     Not  a  curl  of  the  proud  lip,  not  a 


^^,2  DOMBEY  AND  S6M. 

flash  of  the  dark  eye,  nothing  but  the  same  intent  and  search- 
ing look,  accompanied  these  words.  "  You  know  my  general 
history.  You  have  spoken  of  my  mother.  Do  you  think  you 
can  degrade,  or  bend  or  break,  me  to  submission  and  obedi- 
ence ?  " 

Mr.  Dombey  smiled,  as  he  might  have  smiled  at  an  inquiry 
jvhether  he  thought  he  could  raise  ten  thousand  pounds. 

"  If  there  is  anything  unusual  here,"  she  said,  with  a  slight 
motion  of  her  hand  before  her  brow,  which  did  not  for  a  moment 
flinch  from  its  immovable  and  otherwise  expressionless  gaze, 
"  as  I  know  there  are  unusual  feelings  here,"  raising  the  hand 
she  pressed  upon  her  bosom,  and  heavily  returning  it,  "  consider 
that  there  is  no  common  meaning  in  the  appeal  I  am  going  to 
make  you.  Yes,  for  I  am  going:"  she  said  it  as  in  prompt 
reply  to  something  in  his  face  ;  "  to  appeal  to  you." 

Mr.  Dombey,  with  a  slightly  condescending  bend  of  his 
chin  that  rustled  and  crackled  his  stiff  cravat,  sat  down  on  a 
sofa  that  was  near  him,  to  hear  the  appeal. 

"  If  you  can  believe  that  I  am  of  such  a  nature  now," — he 
fancied  he  saw  tears  glistening  in  her  eyes,  and  he  thought, 
complacently,  that  he  had  forced  them  from  her,  though  none 
fell  on  her  cheek,  and  she  regarded  him  as  steadily  as  ever,— 
"  as  would  make  what  I  now  say  almost  incredible  to  myself, 
said  to  any  man  who  had  become  my  husband,  but,  above  all, 
said  to  you,  you  may,  perhaps,  attach  the  greater  weight  to  it. 
In  the  dark  end  to  which  we  are  tending,  and  may  come,  we 
shall  not  involve  ourselves  alone  (that  might  not  be  much)  but 
others." 

Others  1  He  knew  at  whom  that  word  pointed,  and  frowned 
heavily. 

"  I  speak  to  you  for  the  sake  of  others.  Also  your  own 
sake  ;  and  for  mine.  Since  our  marriage,  you  have  been  arro- 
gant to  me ;  and  I  have  repaid  you  in  kind.  You  have  shown 
to  me  and  every  one  around  us,  every  day  and  hour,  that  you 
think  I  am  graced  and  distinguished  by  your  alliance.  1  do 
not  think  so,  and  have  shown  that  too.  It  seems  you  do  not 
uuderstand,  or  (so  far  as  your  power  can  go)  intend  that  each 
of  us  shall  take  a  separate  course  ;  and  you  expect  from  me 
instead,  a  homage  you  will  never  have." 

Although  her  face  was  still  the  same,  there  was  emphatic 
confirmation  of  this  "  Never"  in  the  very  breath  she  drew. 

"  I  feel  no  tenderness  towards  you  ;  that  you  know.  Y.)u 
would  care  nothing  for  it,  if  I  did  or  could.  I  know  as  well 
that  you  feel  none  towards  me.     But  we  are  linked  together  ; 


bOMES  TIC  RELA  tlONS.  343 

imd  in  the  knot  that  ties  us,  as  I  have  said,  others  are  bound 
up.  We  must  both  die  ;  we  are  both  connected  with  the  dead 
already,  each  by  a  Uttle  child.  Let  us  forbear." 

Mr.  Dombey  took  a  long  respiration,  as  if  he  would  have 
■  said,  Oh  !  was  this  all  ! 

"  There  is  no  wealth,"  she  went  on,  turning  paler  as  she 
watched  him,  while  her  eyes  grew  yet  more  lustrous  in  their 
earnestness,  "  that  could  buy  these  words  of  me,  and  the  mean- 
ing that  belongs  to  them.  Once  cast  away  as  idle  breath,  no 
wealth  or  power  can  bring  them  back.  I  mean  them ;  I  have 
weighed  them  ;  and  I  will  be  true  to  what  I  undertake.  If  you 
will  promise  to  forbear  on  your  part,  I  will  promise  to  forbear 
on  mine.  We  are  a  most  unhappy  pair,  in  whom,  from  differ- 
ent causes,  every  sentiment  that  blesses  marriage,  or  justifies 
it,  is  rooted  out ;  but  in  the  course  of  time,  some  friendship,  or 
some  fitness  for  each  other,  may  arise  between  us.  I  will  try 
to  hope  so,  if  you  will  make  the  endeavor  too  ;  and  I  will  look 
forward  to  a  better  and  a  happier  use  of  age  than  I  have  made 
of  youth  or  prime." 

Throughout  she  had  spoken  in  a  low  plain  voice,  that  neither 
rose  nor  fell ;  ceasing,  she  dropped  the  hand  with  which  she 
had  enforced  herself  to  be  so  passionless  and  distinct,  but  not 
the  eyes  with  which  she  had  so  steadily  observed  him. 

"  Madam,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  with  his  utmost  dignity,  "  I 
cannot  entertain  any  proposal  of  this  extraordinary  nature." 
She  looked  at  him  yet,  without  the  least  change. 
"I  cannot,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  rising  as  he  spoke,  "consent 
to  temporize  or  treat  with  you,  Mrs.  Dombey,  upon  a  subject 
as  to  which  you  are  in  possession  of  my  opinions  and  expecta- 
tions, I  have  stated  my  ultimatum,  Madam,  and  have  only  to 
request  your  very  serious  attention  to  it." 

To  see  the  face  change  to  its  old  expression,  deepened  in 
intensity  !  To  see  the  eyes  droop  as  from  some  mean  and 
odious  object !  To  see  the  lighting  of  the  haughty  brow  !  To 
see  scorn,  anger,  indignation,  and  abhorrence  starting  into 
sight,  and  the  pale  blank  earnestness  vanish  like  a  mist  1  He 
could  not  choose  but  look,  although  he  looked  to  his  dismay. 

"  Go,  Sir ! "  she  said,  pointing  with  an  imperious  hand 
towards  the  door.  "  Our  first  and  last  confidence  is  at  an  end. 
Nothing  can  make  us  stranger  to  each  other  than  we  are  hence- 
forth." 

"  I  shall  take  my  rightful  course.  Madam,"  said  Mr.  Dom- 
bey, "  undeterred,  you  may  be  sure,  by  any  general  declama- 
tion." 


J44  DOMBEY  AND  SON 

She  turned  her  back  upon  him,  and,  without  reply  sat  down 
before  her  glass. 

''  1  place  my  reliance  on  your  improved  sense  of  duty,  and 
more  correct  feeling,  and  better  reflection,  Madam,"  said  Mr 
Dombey. 

She  answered  not  one  word.  He  saw  no  more  expression 
of  any  heed  of  him,  in  the  mirror,  than  if  he  had  been  an  un- 
seen spider  on  the  wall,  or  beetle  on  the  floor,  or  rather,  than  if 
he  had  been  the  one  or  other,  seen  and  crushed  when  she  last 
turned  from  him,  and  forgotten  among  the  ignominious  and 
dead  vermin  of  the  ground. 

He  looked  back,  as  he  went  out  of  the  door,  upon  the  well- 
lighted  and  luxurious  room,  the  beautiful  and  glittering  objects 
everywhere  displayed,  the  shape  of  Edith  in  its  rich  dress  seated 
before  her  glass,  and  the  face  of  Edith  as  the  glass  presented 
it  to  him  ;  and  betook  himself  to  his  old  chamber  of  cogitation, 
carrying  away  with  him  a  vivid  picture  in  his  mind  of  all  these 
flings,  and  a  rambling  and  unaccountable  speculation  (such  as 
sometimes  comes  into  a  man's  head  how  they  would  all  look 
when  he  saw  them  next. 

For  the  rest,  Mr.  Dombey  was  very  taciturn,  and  very  dig- 
nified, and  very  confident  of  carrying  out  his  purpose  ;  and 
remained  so. 

He  did  not  design  accompanying  the  family  to  Brighton  ; 
but  he  graciously  informed  Cleopatra  at  breakfast,  on  the  morn- 
ing of  departure,  which  arrived  a  day  or  two  afterwards,  that  he 
might  be  expected  down,  soon.  There  was  no  time  to  be  lost 
in  getting  Cleopatra  to  any  place  recommended  as  being  salu- 
tary ;  for,  indeed,  she  seemed  upon  the  wane,  and  turning  of 
the  earth,  earthy. 

Without  having  undergone  any  decided  second  attack  of  her 
malady,  the  old  woman  seemed  to  have  crawled  backward  in 
her  recovery  from  the  first.  She  was  more  lean  and  shrunken, 
more  uncertain  in  her  imbecility,  and  made  stranger  confusions 
in  her  mind  and  memory.  Among  other  symptoms  of  this  last 
affliction,  she  fell  into  the  habit  of  confounding  the  names  of  her 
two  sons-in-law,  the  living  and  the  deceased  ;  and  in  general 
called  Mr.  Dombey,  either  "  (Jrangeby,"  or  "  Domber,"  or  in- 
differently, both. 

But  she  was  youthful,  very  youthful  still  ;  and  in  her  youth- 
fulness  appeared  at  breakfast,  before  going  away,  in  a  new  bon- 
net made  express,  and  a  travelling  robe  that  was  embroidered 
and  braided  like  an  old  baby's.  It  was  not  easy  to  put  her 
into  a  fly-away  bonnet  now,  or  to  keep  the  bonnet  in  its  place 


DOMESTIC  RELA  TIONS.  545 

to  the  back  of  her  poor  nodding  head,  when  it  was  got  on.  In 
this  instance,  it  had  not  only  the  extraneous  effect  of  being 
always  on  one  side,  but  of  being  perpetually  tapped  on  the 
crown  by  Flowers  the  maid,  who  attended  in  the  background 
during  breakfast  to  perform  that  duty. 

"  Now  my  dearest  Grangeby,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  "  you 
must  posively  prom,"  she  cut  some  of  her  words  short,  and  cut 
out  others  altogether,  "  come  down  very  soon." 

"  I  said  just  now.  Madam,"  returned  Mr.  Dombey,  loudly 
and  laboriously,  "  that  I  am  coming  in  a  day  or  two." 

"  Bless  you,  Domber  !  " 

Here  the  Major  who  was  come  to  take  leave  of  the  ladies, 
and  who  was  staring  through  his  apoplectic  eyes  at  Mrs.  Skew- 
ton's  face,  with  the  disinterested  composure  of  an  immortal 
being,  said : 

"  Begad,  Ma'am,  you  don't  ask  old  Joe  to  come  " 

"  Sterious  wretch,  who's  he  ?  "  lisped  Cleopatra.  But  a  tap 
on  the  bonnet  from  Flowers  seeming  to  jog  her  memory,  she 
added,  "  Oh  !     You  mean  yourself,  you  naughty  creature  !  " 

"  Devilish  queer,  Sir,"  whispered  the  Major  to  Mr.  Dombey. 
"  Bad  case.  Never  did  wrap  up  enough  ; "  the  Major  being 
buttoned  to  the  chin.  "  Why  who  should  J.  B.  mean  by  Joe, 
but  old  Joe  Bagstock-^Joseph  —  Your  slave  —  Joe,  Ma'am? 
Here  !  Here's  the  man  !  Here  are  the  Bagstock  bellows, 
Ma'am  !  "  cried  the  Major,  striking  himself  a  sounding  blow  on 
the  chest. 

"  My  dearest  Edith — Grangeby — it's  most  trordinry  thing," 
said  Cleopatra,  pettishly,  "  that  Major — " 

*'  Bagstock  !  J.  B  !  "  cried  the  Major,  seeing  that  she  fal- 
tered  for  his  name. 

"  Well,  it  don't  matter,"  said  Cleopatra,  "  Edith,  my  love, 
you  know  I  never  could  remember  names — what  was  it  ?  oh  !— 
most  trordinry  thing  that  so  many  people  want  to  come  down  to 
see  me.  I'm  not  going  for  long.  I'm  coming  back.  Surely 
they  can  wait,  till  I  come  back  !  " 

Cleopatra  looked  all  round  the  table  as  she  said  it,  and  ap- 
peared very  uneasy. 

"  I  won't  have  visitors — really  don't  want  visitors,"  she 
said  j  "  little  repose — and  all  that  sort  of  thing — is  what  I  quire. 
No  odious  brutes  must  proach  me  till  I've  shaken  off  this 
numbness  ;  "  and  in  a  grisly  resumption  of  her  coquettish  ways, 
she  made  a  dab  at  the  Major  with  her  fan,  but  overset  Mr. 
Dombey's  breakfast  cup  instead,  which  was  in  quite  a  different 
direction- 


j^6  DOM  BEY  AND  SOxV. 

Then  she  called  for  Withers,  and  charged  him  to  see  pat 
ticularly  that  word  was  left  about  some  trivial  alterations  in  her 
room,  which  must  be  all  made  before  she  came  back,  and  which 
must  be  set  about  immediately,  as  there  was  no  saying  how  soon 
she  might  come  back  ;  for  she  had  a  great  many  engagements, 
and  all  sorts  of  people  to  call  upon.  Withers  received  these 
directions  with  becoming  deference,  and  gave  his  guarantee  for 
their  execution  ;  but  when  he  withdrew  a  pace  or  two  behind 
her,  it  appeared  as  if  he  couldn't  help  looking  strangely  at  the 
Major,  who  couldn't  help  looking  strangely  at  Mr.  Dombey, 
who  couldn't  help  looking  strangely  at  Cleopatra,  who  couldn't 
help  nodding  her  bonnet  over  one  eye,  and  rattling  her  knife 
and  fork  upon  her  plate  in  using  them,  as  if  she  were  playing 
castanets. 

Edith  alone  never  lifted  her  eyes  to  any  face  at  the  table, 
and  never  seemed  dismayed  by  anything  her  mother  said  or 
did.  She  listened  to  her  disjointed  talk,  or  at  least,  turned  her 
head  towards  her  when  addressed  ;  replied  in  a  few  low  words 
when  necessary ;  and  sometimes  stopped  her  when  she  was 
rambling,  or  brought  her  thoughts  back  with  a  monosyllable,  to 
the  point  from  which  they  had  strayed.  The  mother,  however 
unsteady  in  other  things,  was  constant  in  this — that  she  was 
always  observant  of  her.  She  would  look  at  the  beautiful  face, 
in  its  marble  stillness  and  severity,  now  with  a  kind  of  fearful 
admiration  ;  now  in  a  giggling  foolish  effort  to  move  it  to  a 
smile  ;  now  with  capricious  tears  and  jealous  shakings  of  her 
head,  as  imagining  herself  neglected  by  it ;  always  with  an  at- 
traction towards  it  that,  never  fluctuated  like  her  other  ideas, 
but  had  constant  possession  of  her.  From  Edith  she  woidd 
sometimes  look  at  Florence,  and  back  again  at  Edith,  in  a 
manner  that  was  wild  enough  ;  and  sometimes  she  would 
try  to  look  elsewhere,  as  if  to  escape  from  her  daughter's 
face  ;  but  back  to  it  she  seemed  forced  to  come,  although  it 
never  sought  hers  unless  sought,  or  troubled  her  with  one  single 
glance. 

The  breakfast  concluded,  Mrs.  Skewton,  affecting  to  lean 
girlishly  upon  the  Major's  arm,  but  heavily  supported  on  the 
other  side  by  Flowers  the  maid,  and  propped  up  behind  by 
Withers  the  page,  was  conducted  to  the  carriage,  which  was  to 
take  her,  Florence,  and  Edith  to  Brighton. 

"  And  is  Joseph  absolutely  banished  > "  said  the  Major, 
thrusting  in  his  purple  face  over  the  steps.  "  Damme,  Ma'am, 
is  Cleopatra  so  hard-hearted  as  to  forbid  her  faithful  Antony 
£agstock  to  approach  the  presence  ?  " 


D  0  ME  STIC  REL  A  TIONS. 


547 


•*  Go  along !  "  said  Cleopatra,  "  I  can't  bear  you.  Vou  shall 
see  me  when  I  come  back,  if  you  are  very  good." 

"  Tell  Joseph,  he  may  live  in  hope.  Ma'am,"  said  the  Major ; 
*'  or  he'll  die  in  despair." 

Cleopatra  shuddered,  and  leaned  back.  Edith  my  dear," 
she  said.     "  Tell  him — " 

"  What }  " 

"  Such  dreadful  words,"  said  Cleopatra.  He  uses  such 
dreadful  words  ! " 

Edith  signed  to  him  to  retire,  gave  the  word  to  go  on,  and 
left  the  objectionable  Major  to  Mr.  Dombey.  To  whom  he  re- 
turned, whistling. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what,  Sir,"  said  the  Major,  with  his  hands  be- 
hind him,  and  his  legs  very  wide  asunder,  "  a  fair  friend  of  ours 
has  removed  to  Queer  Street." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Major  ?  "  inquired  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  I  mean  to  say,  Dombey,"  returned  the  Major,  "  that  you'll 
soon  be  an  orphan-in-law." 

Mr.  Dombey  appeared  to  relish  this  waggish  description  of 
himself  so  very  little,  that  the  Major  wound  up  with  the  horse's 
cough,  as  an  expression  of  gravity, 

"  Damme,  Sir,"  said  the  Major,  "  there  is  no  use  in  disguis- 
ing a  fact.  Joe  is  blunt,  Sir.  That's  his  nature.  If  you  take 
old  Josh  at  all,  you  take  him  as  you  find  him  ;  and  a  de-vilish 
rusty,  old  rasper,  of  a  close-toothed,  J.  B.  file,  you  do  find  him. 
Dombey,"  said  the  Major,  "  your  wife's  mother  is  on  the  move, 
Sir." 

"I  fear,"  returned  Mr.  Dombey,  with  much  philosophy, 
"that  Mrs.  Skewton  is  shaken. 

"  Shaken,  Dombey  !  "  said  the  Major.     "  Smashed  !" 

"  Change,  however,"  pursued  Mr.  Dombey,  "  and  attention 
may  do  much  yet." 

"  Don't  believe  it,  Sir,"  returned  the  Major.  "  Damme,  Sir, 
she  never  wrapped  up  enough.  If  a  man  don't  wrap  up,"  said 
the  Major,  taking  in  another  button  of  his  buff  waistcoat,  "he 
nothing  to  fall  back  upon.  But  some  people  will  die.  They 
will  do  it.  Damme,  they  will.  They're  obstinate.  I  tell  you 
what,  Dombey,  it  may  not  be  ornamental  ;  it  may  not  be  refined  ; 
it  may  be  rough  and  tough ;  but  a  little  of  the  genuine  old 
English  Bagstock  stamina.  Sir,  would  do  all  the  good  in  the 
world  to  the  human  breed." 

After  imparting  this  precious  piece  of  information,  the  Major, 
who  was  certainly  true-blue,  whatever  other  endowments  he 
may  have  possessed  or  wanted,  coming  within  the  "  genuine  pl^ 


t48  DOMDEV  AXD  SON. 

English  "  classification,  which  has  never  been  exactly  ascer. 
tained,  took  his  lobster-eyes  and  his  apoplexy  to  the  club,  and 
choked  there  all  day. 

Cleopatra,  at  one  time  fretful,  at  another  self-complacent, 
sometimes  awake,  sometimes  asleep,  and  at  all  times  juvenile, 
reached  Brighton  the  same  night,  fell  to  peices  as  usual,  and 
was  put  away  in  bed  :  where  a  gloomy  fancy  might  have  pic- 
tured a  more  potent  skeleton  than  the  maid,  who  should  have 
been  one,  watching  at  the  rose-colored  curtains,  which  were 
carried  down  to  shed  their  bloom  upon  her. 

It  was  settled  in  high  council  of  medical  authority  that  she 
should  take  a  carriage  airing  every  day,  and  that  it  was  impor- 
tant she  should  get  out  every  day,  and  walk  if  she  could.  Edith 
was  ready  to  attend  her — always  ready  to  attend  her,  with  the 
same  mechanical  attention  and  immovable  beauty — and  they 
drove  out  alone  ;  for  Pklith  had  an  uneasiness  in  the  presence 
of  Florence,  now  that  her  mother  was  worse,  and  told  Florence, 
"X'ith  a  kiss,  that  she  would  rather  they  two  went  alone. 

Mrs.  Skewton,  on  one  particular  day,  was  in  the  irresolute, 
exacting,  jealous  temper  that  had  developed  itself  on  her  recov- 
ery from  her  first  attack.  After  sitting  silent  in  the  carriage 
watching  Edith  for  some  time,  she  took  her  hand  and  kissed  it 
passionately.  The  hand  was  neither  given  nor  withdrawn,  but 
simply  yielding  to  her  raising  of  it,  and  being  released,  dropped 
down  again,  almost  as  if  it  were  insensible.  At  this  she  began 
to  whimper  and  moan,  and  say  what  a  mother  she  had  been, 
and  how  she  was  forgotten  !  This  she  continued  to  do  at 
capricious  intervals,  even  when  they  had  alighted  :  when  she 
herself  was  halting  along  with  the  joint  support  of  Withers  and 
a  stick,  and  Edith  was  walking  by  her  side,  and  the  carriage 
slowly  following  at  a  little  distance. 

It  was  a  bleak,  lowering  windy  day,  and  they  were  out  upon 
the  Downs  with  nothing  but  a  bare  sweep  of  land  between  them 
and  the  sky.  The  mother,  with  a  querulous  satisfaction  in  the 
monotony  of  her  complaint,  was  still  repeating  it  in  a  low  voice 
from  time  to  time,  and  the  proud  form  of  her  daughter  moved 
beside  her  slowly,  when  there  came  advancing  over  a  dark  ridge 
before  them  two  other  figures,  which,  in  the  distance,  were  so 
like  an  exaggerated  imitation  of  their  own,  that  Edith  stopped. 

Almost  as  she  stopped,  the  two  figures  stopped  ;  and  that 
one  which  to  Edith's  tliinking  was  like  a  distorted  shadow  of 
her  mother,  spoke  to  the  other,  earnestly,  :\.r\(\  with  a  pointing 
hand  towards  them.  That  one  seemed  inclined  to  turn  back, 
but  the  other,  in  which  Edith  recognized  enough  that  was  like 


DOMES  TIC  REL  A  TIONS. 


549 


herself  to  strike  her  with  an  unusual  feeling,  not  quite  free  from 
fear,  came  on  ;  and  then  they  came  on  together. 

The  greater  part  of  this  observation  she  made  while  walking 
towards  them;  for  her  stoppage  had  been  momentary.  Nearer 
observation  showed  her  that  they  were  poorly  dressed,  as  wan- 
derers about  the  country  ;  that  the  younger  woman  carried 
knitted  work  or  some  such  goods  for  sale;  and  that  the  old  one 
toiled  on  empty-handed. 

And  yet,  however  far  removed  she  was  in  dress,  in  dignity, 
in  beauty,  Edith  could  not  but  compare  the  younger  woman  with 
herself,  still.  It  may  have  been  that  she  saw  upon  her  face 
some  traces  which  she  knew  were  lingering  in  her  own  soul,  if 
not  yet  written  on  that  index ;  but,  as  the  woman  came  on,  re- 
turning her  gaze,  fixing  her  shining  eyes  upon  her,  undoubtedly 
presenting  something  of  her  own  air  and  stature,  and  appearing 
to  reciprocate  her  own  thoughts,  she  felt  a  chill  creep  over  her, 
as  if  the  day  were  darkening,  and  the  wind  were  colder. 

They  had  now  come  up.  The  old  woman  holding  out  her 
hand  importunately,  stopped  to  beg  of  Mrs.  Skewton.  The 
younger  one  stopped  too,  and  she  and  Edith  looked  in  one 
another's  eyes. 

"  What  is  that  you  have  to  sell  t  "  said  Edith. 

"  Only  this,"  returned  the  woman,  holding  out  her  wares, 
without  looking  at  them.     "  I  sold  myself  long  ago." 

"  My  Lady,  don't  believe  her,"  croaked  the  old  woman  to 
Mrs.  Skewton  ;  "  don't  believe  what  she  says.  She  loves  to 
talk  like  that.  She's  my  handsome  and  undutiful  daughter. 
She  gives  me  nothing  but  reproaches,  my  Lady,  for  all  I  have 
done  for  her.  Look  at  her  now,  my  Lady,  how  she  turns  upon 
her  poor  old  mother  with  her  looks." 

As  Mrs.  Skewton  drew  her  purse  out  with  a  trembling  hand, 
and  eagerly  fumbled  for  some  money,  which  the  other  old 
woman  greedily  watched  for — their  heads  all  but  touching,  in 
their  hurry  and  decrepitude — Edith  interposed : 

"  I  have  seen  you,"  addressing  the  old  woman,  "before." 

"  Yes,  my  Lady,"  with  a  curtsey.  "  Down  in  Warwickshire. 
The  morning  among  the  trees.  When  you  wouldn't  give  me 
nothing.  But  the  gentleman,  //t'give  me  something  !  Oh,  bless 
him,  bless  him !  "  mumbled  the  old  woman,  holding  up  her 
skinny  hand,  and  grinning  frightfully  at  her  daughter. 

"It's  of  no  use  attempting  to  stay  me,  Edilli  !  "  said  Mrs. 
Skewton,  angrily  anticipating  an  objection  from  her.  "You 
know  nothing  about  it.  I  won't  be  dissuaded.  I  am  sure  this 
is  an  excellent  woman,  and  a  good  mother." 


550  DOMBEV  AXrs  SON. 

"Yes,  my  Lady,  yes,"  chattered  the  old  woman,  holding  out 
her  avaricious  hand.  "  Thankee,  my  Lady.  Lord  bless  you, 
my  Lady.  Sixpence  more,  my  pretty  Lady,  as  a  good  mother 
yourself." 

"  And  treated  undutifully  enough,  too,  my  good  old  crea 
ture,  sometimes,  I  assure  you,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  whimpering. 
"  There  !  Shake  hands  with  me.  You're  a  very  good  old 
creature — full  of  what's-his-name  —  and  all  that.  You're  all 
affection  and  et  cetera,  an't  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  my  Lady  !  " 

"  Yes,  I'm  sure  you  are  ;  and  so's  that  gentlemanly  creature 
Grangeby.  I  must  really  shake  hands  with  you  again.  And 
now  you  can  go,  you  know  ;  and  I  hope,"  addressing  the  daugh- 
ter, "  that  you'll  show  more  gratitude,  and  natural  what's-its- 
name,  and  all  the  rest  of  it — ^but  I  never  did  remember  names 
— for  there  never  was  a  better  mother  than  the  good  old  crea- 
ture's been  to  you.     Come  Edith  !  " 

As  the  ruin  of  Cleopatra  tottered  off  whimpering,  and 
wiping  its  eyes  with  a  gingerly  remembrance  of  rouge  in  their 
neighborhood,  the  old  woman  hobbled  another  wa}',  mumbling 
and  counting  her  money.  Not  one  word  more,  nor  one  other 
gesture,  had  been  exchanged  between  Edith  and  the  younger 
woman,  but  neither  had  removed  her  eyes  from  the  other  for  a 
moment.  They  had  remained  confronted  until  now,  when 
Edith,  as  awakening  from  a  dream,  passed  slowly  on. 
I  "You're  a  handsome  woman,"  muttered  her  shadow,  look- 
ing after  her  ;  "but  good  looks  won't  save  us.  And  you're  a 
I  proud  woman  ;  but  pride  won't  save  us.  We  had  need  to  know 
each  other  when  we  meet  again  " 


CHAPTER  XU. 

NEW  VOICES   IN   THE   WAVES. 


All  is  going  on  as  it  was  wont.  The  waves  are  hoarse 
with  repetition  of  their  mystery  :  the  dust  lies  piled  upon  the 
shore  ;  the  sea-birds  soar  and  hover ;  the  winds  and  clouds  go 
forth  upon  their  trackless  flight ;  the  wliile  arms  beckon,  in  the 
moonlight,  to  the  in\isiblc  country  far  away. 

With  a  tender  melancholy  pleasure,  Florenw  finds  herseU 


NEIV  VOICES  m  THE  WAVES.  551 

again  on  the  old  ground  so  sadly  trodden,  yet  so  happily,  and 
thinks  of  him  in  the  quiet  place,  where  he  and  she  have  many 
and  many  a  time  conversed  together,  with  the  water-welling  up 
about  his  couch.  And  now,  as  she  sits  pensive  there,  she  hears 
in  the  wild  low  murmur  of  the  sea,  his  little  story  told  again, 
his  very  words  repeated  ;  and  finds  that  all  her  life  and  hopes, 
and  griefs,  since — in  the  solitary  house,  and  in  the  pageant  it 
has  changed  to— have  a  portion  in  the  burden  of  the  marvel- 
lous song. 

And  gentle  Mr.  Toots,  who  wanders  at  a  distance,  looking 
wistfully  towards  the  figure  that  he  doats  upon,  and  has  followed 
there,  but  cannot  in  his  delicacy  disturb  at  such  a  time,  like- 
wise hears  the  requiem  of  little  Dombey  on  the  waters,  rising 
and  falling  in  the  lulls  of  their  eternal  madrigal  in  praise  of 
Florence.  Yes  !  and  he  faintly  understands,  poor  Mr.  Toots, 
that  they  are  saying  something  of  a  time  when  he  was  sensible 
of  being  brighter  and  not  addle-brained  ;  and  the  tears  rising 
in  his  eyes  when  he  fears  that  he  is  dull  and  stupid  now,  aiid 
good  for  little  but  to  be  laughed  at,  diminish  his  satisfaction  in 
their  soothing  reminder  that  he  is  relieved  from  present  re- 
sponsibility to  the  Chicken,  by  the  absence  of  that  game  head 
of  poultry  in  the  country,  training  (at  Toots's  cost)  for  his  great 
mill  with  the  Larkey  Boy. 

But  Mr,  Toots  takes  courage,  when  they  whisper  a  kind 
thought  to  him  ;  and  by  slow  degrees  and  with  many  indecisive 
stoppages  on  the  way,  approaches  Florence.  Stammering  and 
blushing,  Mr.  Toots  affects  amazement  when  he  comes  near  her 
and  says  (having  followed  close  on  the  carriage  in  which  she 
travelled,  every  inch  of  the  way  from  London,  loving  even  to 
be  choked  by  the  dust  of  tts  wheels)  that  he  never  was  so  sur- 
prised in  all  his  life. 

"  And  you've  brought  Diogenes,  too,  Miss  Dombey  I  "  says 
Mr.  Toots,  thrilled  through  and  through  by  the  touch  of  the 
small  hand  so  pleasantly  and  frankly  given  him. 

No  doubt  Diogenes  is  there,  and  no  doubt  Mr.  Toots  has 
reason  to  observe  him,  for  he  comes  straightway  at  Mr.  Toots's 
legs,  and  tumbles  over  himself  in  the  desperation  with  which 
he  makes  at  him,  like  a  very  dog  of  Montargis.  But  he  is 
checked  by  his  sweet  mistress. 

"  Down  Di,  Down.  Don't  you  remember  who  first  made  us 
friends,  Di  ?     For  shame  I  " 

Oh  1  Well  may  Di  lay  his  loving  cheek  against  her  hand, 
and  run  off,  and  run  back,  and  run  round  her,  barking,  and 
nm  headlong  at  anybody  coming  by,  to  show  hiS  devotion. 


J52  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

Mr.  Toots  would  run  headlong  at  anybody,  loo.  A  military 
gentleman  goes  past,  and  Mr.  Toots  would  like  nothing  bettei 
than  to  run  at  Inm,  full  tilt. 

"Diogenes  is  quite  in  his  native  air,  isn't  he  Miss  Dom- 
bey  ?  "  says  Mr.  Toots. 

Florence  assents,  with  a  grateful  smile. 

"  Miss  Donibey,"  says  Mr.  Toots,  "  beg  your  pardon,  but 
if  you  would  like  to  walk  to  Blimber's,  I — I'm  going  there." 

Florence  puts  her  arm  in  that  of  Mr.  Toots  without  a  word, 
and  they  walked  away  together,  with  Diogenes  going  on  before. 
Mr.  Toots's  legs  shake  under  him  ;  and  though  he  is  splendidly 
dressed,  he  feels  misfits,  and  sees  wrinkles,  in  the  masterpieces 
of  Burgess  and  Co.,  and  wishes  he  had  put  on  that  brightest 
pair  of  boots. 

Doctor  Blimber's  house,  outside,  has  as  scholastic  and 
studious  an  air  as  ever  :  and  up  there  is  the  window  where  she 
used  to  look  for  the  pale  face,  and  where  the  pale  face  bright- 
ened when  it  saw  her,  and  the  wasted  little  hand  waved  kisses 
as  she  passed.  The  door  is  opened  by  the  same  weak-eyed 
young  man,  whose  imbecility  of  grin  at  sight  of  Mr.  Toots  is 
feebleness  of  character  personified.  They  are  shown  into  the 
Doctor's  study,  where  blind  Homer  and  Minerva  give  them 
audience  as  of  yore,  to  the  sober  ticking  of  the  great  clock  in 
the  hall ;  and  where  the  globes  stand  still  in  their  accustomed 
places,  as  if  the  world  were  stationary  too,  and  nothing  in  it 
ever  perished  in  obedience  to  the  universal  law,  that,  while  it 
keeps  it  on  the  roll,  calls  everything  to  earth. 

And  here  is  Doctor  Blimber,  with  his  learned  legs  ;  and 
here  is  Mrs.  Blimber,  with  her  sky-blue  cap  ;  and  here  is  Cor- 
nelia, with  her  sandy  little  row  of  curls,  and  her  bright  spec- 
tacles, still  working  like  a  sexton  in  the  graves  of  languages. 
Here  is  the  table  upon  which  he  sat  forlorn  and  strange,  the 
"  new  boy,"  of  the  school ;  and  hither  comes  the  distant  cooing 
of  the  old  boys,  at  their  old  lives  in  the  old  room  on  the  old 
principle! 

"  Toots,"  says  Doctor  Blimber  *'  J  am  very  glad  to  see  you, 
Toots." 

Mr.  Toots  chuckles  in  reply. 

"  Also  to  see  you,  Toots,  in  such  good  company,"  says 
Doctor  Blimber. 

Mr.  Toots,  with  a  scarlet  visage,  explains  that  he  has  met 
Miss  Dombey  by  accident,  and  that  Miss  Dombey  wishing,  like 
hiniself,  to  see  the  old  place,  lliey  have  come  together. 

*'  You  will  like,"  says  Doctor  Blimber,  "  to  step  among  oiji 


NEW  VOICES  IN  THE  WAVES.  553 

young  friends,  Miss  Dombey,  no  doubt.  All  fellow-students  of 
yours,  Toots,  once.  I  think  we  have  no  new  disciples  in  our 
little  portico,  my  dear,"  says  Doctor  Blimber  to  Cornelia,  "  since 
Mr.  Toots  left  us." 

"  Except  Bitherstone,"  returns  Cornelia. 

"  Ay,  truly,"  says  the  Doctor,  "  Bitherstone  is  new  to  Mr. 
Toots." 

New  to  Florence,  too,  almost ;  for  in  the  school-room,  Bither- 
stone— no  longer  Master  Bitherstone  of  Mrs.  Pipchin's — shows 
in  collars  and  a  neckcloth,  and  wears  a  watch.  But  Bither- 
stone, born  beneath  some  Bengal  star  of  ill-omen,  is  extremely 
inky;  and  his  Lexicon  has  got  so  dropsical  from  constant 
reference,  that  it  won't  shut,  and  yawns  as  if  it  really  could 
not  bear  to  be  so  bothered.  So  does  Bitherstone  its  master 
forced  at  Dr.  Blimber's  highest  pressure  ;  but  in  the  yawn  of 
Bitherstone  there  is  malice  and  snarl,  and  he  has  been  heard  to 
say  that  he  wishes  he  could  catch  "  old  Blimber "  in  India. 
He'd  precious  soon  find  himself  carried  up  the  country  by  a  few 
of  his  (Bitherstone's)  Coolies,  and  handed  over  to  the  Thugs  ; 
he  can  tell  him  that. 

Briggs  is  still  grinding  in  the  mill  of  knowledge ;  and  Toser, 
too  ;  and  Johnson,  too  ;  and  all  the  rest ;  the  older  pupils  being 
principally  engaged  in  forgetting,  with  prodigious  labor,  every- 
thing they  knew  when  they  were  younger.  All  are  as  polite  and 
as  pale  as  ever  ;  and  among  them,  Mr.  Feeder,  B.  A.,  with  his 
bony  hand  and  bristly  head,  is  still  hard  at  it :  with  his  He- 
rodotus stop  on  just  at  present,  and  his  other  barrels  on  a  shelf 
behind  him. 

A  mighty  sensation  is  created,  even  among  these  grave  young 
gentlemen,  by  a  visit  from  the  emancipated  Toots  :  who  is  re- 
garded with  a  kind  of  awe,  as  one  who  has  passed  the  Rubicon, 
and  is  pledged  never  to  come  back,  and  concerning  the  cut  of 
whose  clothes,  and  fashion  of  whose  jewelry,  whispers  go  about 
behind  hands  ;  the  bilious  Bitherstone,  who  is  not  of  Mr.  Toots's 
time,  affecting  to  despise  the  latter  to  the  smaller  boys,  and 
saying  he  knows  better,  and  that  he  should  like  to  see  him  com- 
ing that  sort  of  thing  in  Bengal,  where  his  mother  has  got  an 
emerald  belonging  to  him  that  was  taken  out  of  the  footstool  of 
a  Rajah.     Come  now  ! 

Bewildering  emotions  are  awakened  also  by  the  sight  of 
Florence,  with  whom  every  young  gentleman  immediately  falls 
in  love,  again  :  except,  as  aforesaid,  the  bilious  Bitherstone,  who 
declines  to  do  so,  out  of  contradiction.  Black  jealousies  of  Mr. 
Toots  arise,  and  Briggs  is  of  opinion  that  he  ain't  so  very  old 


554 


DOMBE  V  AND  SON. 


after  all.  But  this  disparaging  insinuation  is  speedily  mad« 
nought  by  Mr.  Toots  saying  aloud  to  Mr.  Feeder,  B.  A.,  "  How 
are  you,  Feeder  ?  "  and  asking  him  to  come  and  dine  with  him 
to-day  at  the  Bedford  ;  in  right  of  which  feats  he  might  set  up 
as  Old  Parr,  if  he  chose,  unquestioned. 

There  is  much  shaking  of  hands,  and  much  bowing  and  a 
great  desire  on  the  part  of  each  young  gentleman  to  take  Toots 
down  in  Miss  Dombey's  good  graces  ;  and  then,  Mr.  Toots  hav- 
ing bestowed  a  chuckle  on  his  old  desk,  Florence  and  he  with- 
draw with  Mrs.  Blimber  and  Cornelia  ;  and  Dr.  Blimber  is  heard 
to  observe  behind  them  as  he  comes  out  last,  and  shuts  the 
door,  "  Gentlemen,  we  will  now  resume  our  studies.  For  that 
and  little  else  is  what  the  Doctor  hears  the  sea  say,  or  has  heard 
it  saying  all  his  life. 

Florence  then  steals  away  and  goes  up  stairs  to  the  old 
bed-room  with  Mrs.  Blimber  and  Cornelia ;  Mr.  Toots,  who 
feels  that  neither  he  nor  anybody  else  is  wanted  there,  stands 
talking  to  the  Doctor  at  the  study-door,  or  rather  hearing  the 
Doctor  talk  to  him,  and  wondering  how  he  ever  thought  the 
study  a  great  sanctuary,  and  the  doctor,  with  his  round  turned 
legs,  like  a  clerical  pianoforte,  an  awful  man.  Florence  soon 
comes  down  and  takes  leave  ;  Mr.  Toots  takes  leave ;  and  I^i- 
ogenes,  who  has  been  worr}'ing  the  weak-eyed  young  man  piti- 
lessly all  the  time,  shoots  out  at  the  door,  and  barks  a  glad  de- 
fiance down  the  clifif ;  while  'Melia,  and  another  of  the  Doctor's 
female  domestics,  look  out  of  an  upper  window,  laughing  '*  at 
that  there  Toots,"  and  saying  of  Miss  Dombey,  "  But  really 
though,  now — ain't  she  like  her  brother,  only  prettier.'"' 

Mr.  Toots,  who  saw  when  Florence  came  down  that  there  were 
tears  upon  her  face,  is  desperately  anxious  and  uneasy,  and  at 
first  fears  that  he  did  wrong  in  proposing  the  visit.  But  he  is 
soon  relieved  by  her  saying  she  is  very  glad  to  have  been  there 
again,  and  by  her  talking  quite  cheerfully  about  it  all,  as  they 
walked  on  by  the  sea.  What  with  the  voices  there,  and  her 
sweet  voice,  when  they  come  near  Mr.  Dombey's  house,  and 
Mr.  Toots  must  leave  her,  he  is  so  enslaved  that  he  has  not  a 
scrap  of  free-will  left ;  when  she  gives  him  her  hand  at  parting, 
he  cannot  let  it  go. 

"  Miss  Dombey,  I  beg  your  pardon,"  says  Mr.  Toots,  in  a 
sad  fluster,  "  but  if  you  would  allow  me  to — to — " 

The  smiling  and  unconscious  look  of  Florence  brings  hira 
to  a  dead  stop. 

"If  you  would  allow  me  to — if  you  would  not  consider 
it  a  liberty,  Miss  Dombey,  if  I  was  tp— without  any  encour- 


i^Jitv  VOICES  IN-  Tim  Waves.  ^-^ 

agement  at  all,  if  I  was  to  hope,  you  would  know,"  says  Mr. 
Toots. 

Florence  looks  at  him  inquiringly. 

"  Miss  Dombey,"  says  Mr.  Toots,  who  feels  that  he  is  in  for 
it  now,  "  I  really  am  in  that  state  of  adoration  of  you  that  I 
don't  know  what  to  do  with  myself.  I  am  the  most  deplorable 
wretch.  If  it  wasn't  at  the  corner  of  the  Square  at  present,  I 
should  go  down  on  my  knees,  and  beg  and  entreat  of  you,  with- 
out any  encouragement  at  all,  just  to  let  me  hope  that  I  may — 
'may  think  it  possible  that  you — " 

"  Oh,  if  you  please,  don't !  "  cries  Florence,  for  the  moment 
quite  alarmed  and  distressed.  "  Oh,  pray  don't,  Mr.  Toots. 
Stop,  if  you  please.  Don't  say  any  more.  As  a  kindness  and 
a  favor  to  me,  don't." 

Mr.  Toots  is  dreadfully  abashed,  and  his  mouth  opens. 

"  You  have  been  so  good  to  me,"  says  Florence,  "I  am  so 
grateful  to  you,  I  have  such  reason  to  like  you  for  being  a  kind 
friend  to  me,  and  I  do  like  you  so  much ; "  and  here  the  ingen- 
uous face  smiles  upon  him  with  the  pleasantest  look  of  honesty 
in  the  world  ;  "  that  I  am  sure  you  are  only  going  to  say  good- 
by!" 

"  Certainly,  Miss  Dombey,"  says  Mr.  Toots,  "  I — I — that's 
exactly  what  I  mean.     It's  of  no  consequence." 

"  Good-by  !  "  cries  Florence. 

"  Good-by,  Miss  Dombey  !  "  stammers  Mr.  Toots.  "  I  hope 
you  won't  think  anything  about  it.  It's — it's  of  no  conse- 
quence, thank  you.  It's  not  of  the  least  consequence  in  the 
world." 

Poor  Mr.  Toots  goes  home  to  his  Hotel  in  a  state  of  desper- 
ation, locks  himself  into  his  bedroom,  flings  himself  upon  his 
bed,  and  lies  there  for  a  long  time ;  as  if  it  were  of  the  greatest 
consequence,  nevertheless.  But  Mr.  Feeder,  B.A.,  is  coming 
to  dinner,  which  happens  well  for  Mr.  Toots,  or  there  is  no 
knowing  when  he  might  get  up  again.  Mr,  Toots  is  obliged  to 
get  up  to  receive  him,  and  to  give  him  hospitable  entertain- 
ment. 

And  the  generous  influence  of  that  social  virtue,  hospitality 
(to  make  no  mention  of  wine  and  good  cheer)  opens  Mr.  Toots's 
heart,  and  warms  him  to  conversation.  He  does  not  tell  Mr. 
Feeder,  B.A.,  what  passed  at  the  corner  of  the  Square  ;  but 
when  Mr.  Feeder  asks  him  "  When  it  is  to  come  off  ?  "  Mr.  Toots 
replies,  "  that  there  are  certain  subjects  " — which  brings  Mr. 
Feeder  down  a  peg  or  two  immediately.  Mr.  Toots  adds,  that 
Jie  don't  know  what  right  Blimber  had  to  notice  his  being  iq 


g^6  DOAfBEY  AND  SON. 

Miss  Donibey's  company,  and  thai  if  he  thought  he  meant  iitv 
pudence  by  it,  he'd  have  him  out,  Doctor  or  no  Doctor ;  but  he 
supposes  it's  only  his  ignorance.  Mr.  Feeder  says  he  has  no 
doubt  of  it. 

Mr.  Feeder,  however,  as  an  intimate  friend,  is  not  excluded 
from  the  subject.  Mr.  Toots  merely  requires  that  it  should  be 
mentioned  mysteriously,  and  with  feeling.  After  a  few  glasses 
of  wine,  he  gives  Miss  Dombey's  health,  observing,  "  Feeder, 
you  have  no  idea  of  the  sentiments  with  which  1  propose  that 
toast."  Mr.  Feeder  replies,  "  Oh,  yes,  I  have,  my  dear  Toots  ; 
and  greatly  they  redound  to  your  honor,  old  boy."  Mr,  Feeder 
is  then  agitated  by  friendship,  and  shakes  hands  ;  and  says,  if 
ever  Toots  wants  a  brother,  he  knows  where  to  find  him,  either 
by  post  or  parcel.  Mr.  Feeder  likewise  says,  that  if  he  may  ad- 
vise, he  would  recommend  Mr.  Toots  to  learn  the  guitar,  or,  at 
least,  the  flute ;  for  women  like  music,  when  you  are  paying 
your  addresses  to  'em,  and  he  has  found  the  advantage  of  it 
himself. 

This  brings  Mr.  Feeder,  B.A.,  to  the  confession  that  he  has 
his  eye  upon  Cornelia  Blimber.  He  informs  Mr.  Toots  that  he 
don't  object  to  spectacles,  and  that  if  the  Doctor  were  to  do  the 
handsome  thing  and  give  up  the  business,  why,  there  they  are 
• — provided  tor.  He  says  it's  his  opinion  that  when  a  man  has 
made  a  handsome  sum  by  his  business,  he  is  bound  to  give  it 
up  ;  and  that  Cornelia  would  be  an  assistance  in  it  which  any 
man  might  be  proud  of.  Mr.  Toots  replies  by  launching  wildly 
out  into  Miss  Dombey's  praises,  and  by  insinuations  that  some- 
times he  thinks  he  should  like  to  blow  his  brains  out.  Mr. 
Feeder  strongly  urges  that  it  would  be  a  rash  attempt,  and 
shows  him,  as  a  reconcilement  to  existence,  Cornelia's  portrait, 
spectacles  and  all. 

Thus  these  quiet  spirits  pass  the  .'ivening  ;  and  when  it  has 
yielded  place  to  night,  Mr.  Toots  walks  home  with  Mr.  Feede/, 
and  parts  with  him  at  Doctor  Blimber's  door.  But  Mr.  Feeder 
only  goes  up  the  steps,  and  when  Mr.  Toots  is  gone,  comes 
down  again,  to  stroll  upon  the  beach  alone,  and  think  about  his 
prospects.  Mr.  Feeder  plainly  hears  the  waves  informing  him, 
as  he  loiters  along,  that  Doctor  Blimber  will  give  up  the  busi- 
ness ;  and  he  feels  a  soft  romantic  pleasure  in  looking  at  the 
outside  of  the  house,  and  thinking  that  the  Doctor  w'iJ  first 
paint  it,  and  put  it  into  thorough  repair. 

Mr.  Toots  is  likewise  roaming  up  and  down,  outside  the 
casket  that  contains  his  jewel ;  and  in  a  deplorable  condition  of 
jaind,  and  not  un3uspected  by  the  police,  gazes  at  a  windonf 


NJiW  VOICES  IN-  THE  tVAVES.  ^5^ 

ftrhere  he  sees  a  light,  and  which  he  has  no  doubt  is  Florence  s. 
But  it  is  not,  for  that  is  Mrs.  Skewton's  room  ;  and  while  Flor- 
ence, sleeping  in  another  chamber,  dreams  lovingly,  in  the 
midst  of  the  old  scenes,  and  their  old  associations  live  again, 
the  figure  which  in  grim  reality  is  substituted  for  the  patient 
boy's  on  the  same  theatre,  once  more  to  connect  it — but  how 
differently  ! — with  decay  and  death,  is  stretched  there,  wakeful 
and  complaining.  Ugly  and  haggard  it  lies  upon  its  bed  of  un- 
rest ;  and  by  it,  in  the  terror  of  her  unimpassioned  loveliness — • 
for  it  has  terror  in  the  sufferer's  failing  eyes — sits  Edith.  What 
do  the  waves  say,  in  the  stillness  of  the  night,  to  them  ! 

"  Edith,  what  is  that  stone  arm  raised  to  strike  me.  Don't 
you  see  it .'  " 

"  There  is  nothing,  mother,  but  your  fancy." 

"  But  my  fancy  !  Everything  is  my  fancy.  Look  !  Is  it 
possible  that  you  don't  see  it !  " 

"  Indeed,  mother,  there  is  nothing.  Should  I  sit  unmoved, 
if  there  were  any  such  thing  there  ?  " 

"  Unmoved  ?  "  looking  wildly  at  her — "  it's  gone  now — and 
why  are  you  so  unmoved .?  That  is  not  my  fancy,  Edith.  It 
turns  me  cold  to  see  you  sitting  at  my  side." 

"  I  am  sorry,  mother." 

"  Sorry  !     You  seem  always  sorry.     But  it  is  not  for  me  ! " 

With  that  she  cries  ;  and  tossing  her  restless  head  from  side 
to  side  upon  her  pillow,  runs  on  about  neglect,  and  the  mother 
she  has  been,  and  the  mother  the  good  old  creature  was,  whom 
they  met,  and  the  cold  return  the  daughters  of  such  mothers 
make.  In  the  midst  of  her  incoherence,  she  stops,  looks  at  her 
daughter,  cries  out  that  her  wits  are  going,  and  hides  her  face 
upon  the  bed. 

Edith,  in  compassion,  bends  over  her  and  speaks  to  her. 
The  sick  old  woman  clutches  her  round  the  neck,  and  says, 
with  a  look  of  horror, 

"  Edith  !  we  are  going  home  soon  ;  going  back.  You  mean 
that  I  shall  go  home  again  ?  " 

"  Yes,  mother,  yes." 

"  And  what  he  said — what's  his  name,  I  never  could  remem- 
ber names — Major — that  dreadful  word,  when  we  came  away — • 
it's  not  true  ?  Edith  !  "  wilh  a  shriek  and  a  stare,  "  i'ts  not  that 
that  is  the  matter  with  me/' 

Night  after  night,  the  light  burns  in  the  window,  and  the 
figure  lies  upon  the  bed,  and  Edith  sits  beside  it,  and  the  rest- 
less waves  are  calling  to  them  both  the  whole  night  long.  Night 
after  night,   the  waves   are  hoarse    with   repetition  of  their 


jjg  l^OMBEY  AND  SbK\ 

mystery  ;  the  dust  lies  piled  upon  the  shore  ;  the  sea-birds  so^t 
and  hover;  the  winds  and  clouds  are  on  their  trackless  flight j 
the  white  arms  beckon,  in  the  moonlight,  to  the  invisible  coun- 
try far  away. 

And  still  the  sick  old  woman  looks  into  the  corner,  where 
the  stone  arm — part  of  a  figure  of  some  tomb,  she  says — is 
raised  to  strike  her.  At  last  it  falls  ;  and  then  a  dumb  old 
woman  lies  upon  the  bed,  and  she  is  crooked  and  shrunk  up, 
and  half  of  her  is  dead. 

Such  is  the  figure,  painted  and  patched  for  the  sun  to  mock, 
that  is  drawn  slowly  through  the  crowd  from  day  to  day  ;  look» 
ing,  as  it  goes,  for  the  good  old  creature  who  was  such  a  mothei, 
and  making  mouths  as  it  peers  among  the  crowd  in  vain.  Such 
is  the  figure  that  is  often  wheeled  down  to  the  margin  of  the 
sea,  and  stationed  there  ;  but  on  which  no  wind  can  blow  fresh- 
ness, and  for  which  the  murmur  of  the  ocean  has  no  soothing 
word.  She  lies  and  listens  to  it  by  the  hour ;  but  its  speech  is 
dark  and  gloomy  to  her,  and  a  dread  is  on  her  face,  and  when 
her  eyes  wander  over  the  expanse,  they  see  but  a  broad  stretch 
of  desolation  between  earth  and  heaven. 

Florence  she  seldom  sees,  and  when  she  does,  is  angry  with 
and  mows  at.  Edith  is  beside  her  always,  and  keeps  Florence 
away ;  and  F'lorence,  in  her  bed  at  night,  trembles  at  the 
thought  of  death  in  such  a  shape,  and  often  wakes  and  listens, 
thinking  it  has  come.  No  one  attends  on  her  but  Edith.  It  is 
better  that  few  e3'es  should  see  her  ;  and  her  daughter  watches 
alone  by  the  bedside. 

A  shadow  even  on  that  shadowed  face,  a  sharpening  even 
of  the  sharpened  features,  and  a  thickening  of  the  veil  before 
the  eyes  into  a  pall  that  shuts  out  the  dim  world,  is  come.  Her 
wandering  hands  upon  the  coverlet  join  feebly  palm  to  palm, 
and  move  towards  her  daughter  ;  and  a  voice  not  like  hers,  not 
like  any  voice  that  speaks  our  mortal  language — says,  "  For  I 
nursed  you  !  " 

Edith,  without  a  tear,  kneels  down  to  bring  her  voice  closer 
to  the  sinking  head,  and  answers  : 

"  Mother,  can  you  hear  me.?  " 

Staring  wide,  she  tries  to  nod  in  answer. 

"  Can  you  recollect  the  night  before  I  married  ?  " 

The  head  is  motionless,  but  it  expresses  somehow  that  she 
does 

"  I  told  you  then  that  I  forgave  your  part  in  it,  and  prayed 
God  to  forgive  my  own.  I  told  you  that  the  past  was  at  aa 
end  between  us.     I  say  so  now,  again.     Kiss  me,  mother." 


^nstv  Voices  w  the  iva  I'Es. 


559 


Edith  touches  the  white  lips,  and  for  a  moment  all  is  stilL 
A  moment  afterwards,  her  mother,  with  her  girlish  laugh,  and 
the  skeleton  of  the  Cleopatra  manner,  rises  in  her  bed. 

Draw  the  rose-colored  curtains.  There  is  something  else 
upon  its  flight  besides  the  wind  and  clouds.  Draw  the  rose- 
colored  curtains  close  1 

Intelligence  of  the  event  is  sent  to  Mr.  Dombey  in  town, 
who  waits  upon  Cousin  Feenix  (not  yet  able  to  make  up  his 
mind  for  Baden-Baden),  who  has  just  received  it  too.  A  good- 
natured  creature  like  Cousin  Feenix  is  the  very  man  for  a  mar 
riage  or  a  funeral,  and  his  position  in  the  family  renders  it  right 
that  he  should  be  consulted. 

"  Dombey,"  said  Cousin  Feenix,  "upon  my  soul,  I  am  very 
much  shocked  to  see  you  on  such  a  melancholy  occasion.  My 
poor  aunt !     She  was  a  devilish  lively  woman." 

Mr.  Dombey  replies,  "  Very  much  so." 

"  And  made  up,"  says  Cousin  Feenix,  "  really  young,  you 
know,  considering.  I  am  sure,  on  the  day  of  your  marriage,  I 
thought  she  was  good  for  another  twenty  years.  In  point  of 
fact,  I  said  so  to  a  man  at  Brooks's — little  Billy  Joper — you 
know  him,  no  doubt — man  with  a  glass  in  his  eye  1 " 

Mr.  Dombey  bows  a  negative.  "  In  reference  to  the  obse- 
quies," he  hints,  "whether  there  is  any  suggestion " 

"  Well,  upon  my  life,"  says  Cousin  Feenix,  stroking  his  chin, 
which  he  has  just  enough  of  hand  below  his  wristbands  to  do  ; 
"  I  really  don't  know.  There's  a  Mausoleum  down  at  my  place, 
in  the  park,  but  I'm  afraid  it's  in  bad  repair,  and,  in  point  of 
fact,  in  a  devil  of  a  state.  But  for  being  a  little  out  at  elbows, 
I  should  have  had  it  put  to  rights;  but  I  believe  the  people 
come  and  make  pic-nic  parties  there  inside  the  iron  railings." 

Mr.  Dombey  is  clear  that  this  won't  do. 

"There's  an  uncommon  good  church  in  the  village,"  says 
Cousin  Feenix,  thoughtfully ;  "  pure  specimen  of  the  Anglo- 
Norman  style,  and  admirably  well  sketched  too  by  Lady  Jane 
Finchbury — woman  with  light  stays — but  they've  spoilt  it  with 
whitewash,  I  understand,  and  it's  a  long  journey." 

"  Perhaps  Brighton  itself,"  Mr.  Dombey  suggests. 

"  Upon  my  honor,  Dombey,  I  don't  think  we  could  do 
better,"  says  Cousin  Feenix.  "  It's  on  the  spot,  you  see,  and  a 
very  cheerful  place." 

"  And  when,"  hints  Mr.  Dombey,  "  would  it  be  convenient .? " 

"  I  shall  make  a  point,"  says  Cousin  Feenix,  "  of  pledging 
myself  for  any  day  you  think  best.     1  shall  have  great  pleasure 


ffio  DOMBEY  AND  SOM 

(melancholy  pleasure,  of  course)  in  following  my  poor  aunt  tO 

the  confines  of  the in  point  of  fact  to  the  grave,"  says  Cousin 

Feenix,  failing  in  the  other  turn  of  speech. 

"  Would  Monday  do  for  leaving  town  ?  "  says  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  Monday  would  suit  me  to  perfection,"  replies  Cousin 
Feenix.  Therefore  Mr.  Dombey  arranges  to  take  Cousin 
Feenix  down  on  that  day,  and  presently  takes  his  leave,  attended 
to  th'^  stairs  by  Cousin  Feenix,  who  says,  at  parting,  "  I'm 
really  excessively  sorr)',  Dombey,  that  you  should  have  so  much 
trouble  about  it ;  "  to  which  Mr.  Dombey  answers,  "  Not  at  all." 

At  the  appointed  time,  Cousin  Feenix  and  Mr.  Dombey  meet, 
and  go  down  to  Brighton,  and  representing,  in  their  two  selves, 
all  the  other  mourners  for  the  deceased  lady's  loss,  attend  her 
remains  to  their  place  of  rest.  Cousin  Feenix,  sitting  in  the 
mourning-coach,  recognizes  innumerable  acquaintances  on  the 
road,  but  takes  no  other  notice  of  them,  in  decorum,  than  check- 
ing them  off  aloud,  as  they  go  by,  for  Mr.  Dombey's  informa- 
tion, as  "Tom  Johnson.  Man  with  cork  leg  from  White's. 
What,  are  you  here.  Tommy .-'  Foley  on  a  blood  mare.  The 
Smalder  girls  " — and  so  forth.  At  the  ceremony  Cousin  Feenix 
is  depressed,  observing,  that  these  are  the  occasions  to  make  a 
man  think,  in  point  of  fact,  that  he  is  getting  shaky ;  and  his 
eyes  are  really  moistened,  when  it  is  over.  But  he  soon  re- 
covers ;  and  so  do  the  rest  of  Mrs.  Skewton's  relatives  and 
friends,  of  whom  the  Major  continually  tells  the  club  that  she 
never  did  wrap  up  enough  ;  while  the  young  lady  with  the  back, 
who  has  so  much  trouble  with  her  eyelids,  says,  with  a  little 
scream,  that  she  must  have  been  enormously  old,  and  that  she 
died  of  all  kinds  of  horrors,  and  you  mustn't  mention  it. 

So  Edith's  mother  lies  unmentioned  of  her  dear  friends,  who 
are  deaf  to  the  waves  that  are  hoarse  with  repetition  of  their 
mystery,  and  blind  to  the  dust  that  is  piled  upon  the  shore,  and 
to  the  white  arms  that  are  beckoning,  in  the  moonlight,  to  the 
invisible  country  far  away.  But  all  goes  on,  as  it  was  wont, 
upon  the  margin  of  the  unknown  sea  ;  and  Edith  standing  there 
alone,  and  listening  to  its  waves,  has  dank  weed  cast  up  at  hei 
feet,  to  strew  her  path  in  life  witha' 


CONFIDENTIAL  AND  ACCIDENTAL.  56 1 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

CONFIDENTIAL  AND  ACCIDENTAL. 

Attired  no  more  in  Captain  Cuttle's  sable  slops  and  sou*^. 
wester  hat,  but  dressed  in  a  substantial  suit  of  brown  livery, 
which,  while  it  affected  to  be  a  very  sober  and  demure  livery  in. 
deed,  was  really  as  self-satisfied  and  confident  a  one  as  tailof 
need  desire  to  make,  Rob  the  Grinder,  thus  transformed  as  to 
his  outer  man,  and  all  regardless  within  of  the  Captain  and  the 
Midshipman,  except  when  he  devoted  a  few  minutes  of  his 
leisure  time  to  crowing  over  those  inseparable  worthies,  and  re- 
calling, with  much  applauding  music  from  that  brazen  instru- 
ment, his  conscience,  the  triumphant  manner  in  which  he  had 
disembarrassed  himself  of  their  company,  now  served  his  patron, 
Mr.  Carker.  Inmate  of  Mr.  Carker's  house,  and  serving  about 
his  person,  Rob  kept  his  round  eyes  on  the  white  teeth  with 
fear  and  trembling,  and  felt  that  he  had  need  to  open  them 
wider  than  ever. 

He  could  not  have  quaked  more,  through  his  whole  being, 
before  the  teeth,  though  he  had  come  into  the  service  of  some 
powerful  enchanter,  and  they  had  been  his  strongest  spell.  The 
boy  had  a  sense  of  power  and  authority  in  this  patron  of  his 
that  engrossed  his  whole  attention  and  exacted  his  most  implicit 
submission  and  obedience.  He  hardly  considered  himself  safe 
in  thinking  about  him  when  he  was  absent,  lest  he  should  feel 
himself  immediately  taken  by  the  throat  again,  as  on  the  morn- 
ing when  he  first  became  bound  to  him,  and  should  see  every 
one  of  the  teeth  finding  him  out,  and  taxing  him  with  every  fancy 
of  his  mind.  Face  to  face  with  him,  Rob  had  no  more  doubt 
that  Mr.  Carker  read  his  secret  thoughts,  or  that  he  could  read 
them  by  the  least  exertion  of  his  will,  if  he  were  so  inclined, 
than  he  had  that  Mr.  Carker  saw  him  when  he  looked  at  him. 
The  ascendancy  was  so  complete,  and  held  him  in  such  enthral- 
ment,  that,  hardly  daring  to  think  at  all,  but  with  his  mind  filled 
with  a  constantly  dilating  impression  of  his  patron's  irresistible 
command  over  him,  and  power  of  doing  anything  with  him,  he 
would  stand  watching  his  pleasure,  and  trying  to  anticipate 
bis  orders,  in  a  state  of  mental  suspension,  as  to  all  other 
things. 


jfij  DOAf^F.Y  AND  SON. 

Rob  had  not  informed  himself  perhaps — in  his  then  state  of 
mind  it  would  have  been  an  act  of  no  common  temerity  to  in- 
quire— whether  he  yielded  so  completely  to  this  iiifiuence  in 
any  part,  because  he  had  floating  suspicions  of  his  patron's  be- 
ing a  master  of  certain  treacherous  arts  in  which  he  had  himself 
been  a  poor  scholar  at  the  Grinders'  School.  But  certainly 
Rob  admired  him,  as  well  as  feared  him,  Mr,  Carker,  perhaps, 
was  better  acquainted  with  the  sources  of  his  power,  which  lost 
nothing  by  his  management  of  it. 

On  the  very  night  when  he  left  the  Captain's  service,  Rob; 
after  disposing  of  his  pigeons,  and  even  making  a  bad  bargain 
in  his  hurry,  had  gone  straight  down  to  Mr,  Carker's  house, 
and  hotly  presented  himself  before  his  new  master  with  a  glow* 
ing  face  that  seemed  to  expect  commendation. 

"  What,  scapegrace  !  "  said  Mr.  Carker,  glancing  at  his  bun* 
die.     "  Have  you  left  your  situation  and  come  to  me  ?  " 

"Oh  if  you  please,  Sir,"  faltered  Rob,  "you  said,  you  know, 
when  I  come  here  last — " 

"  /said,"  returned  Mr.  Carker,  "what  did  I  say  ?  " 

"  If  you  please.  Sir,  you  didn't  say  nothing  at  all,  Sir,"  re- 
turned Rob,  warned  by  the  manner  of  this  inquiry,  and  very 
much  disconcerted. 

His  patron  looked  at  him  with  a  wide  display  of  gums,  and 
shaking  his  forefinger,  observed  : 

"  You'll  come  to  an  evil  end,  my  vagabond  friend,  I  foresee. 
There's  ruin  in  store  for  you." 

"  Oh  if  you  please,  don't.  Sir !  "  cried  Rob,  with  his  legs 
trembling  under  him.  "  I'm  sure,  Sir,  I  only  want  to  work  for 
you.  Sir,  and  to  wait  upon  you,  Sir,  and  to  do  faithful  whatever 
I'm  bid.  Sir." 

"  You  had  better  do  faithfully  whatever  you  are  bid,"  re- 
turned his  patron,  "  if  you  have  anything  to  do  with  me." 

"  Yes,  I  know  that.  Sir,"  pleaded  the  submissive  Rob  ;  "I'm 
sure  of  that,  Sir.  If  you'll  only  be  so  good  as  try  me,  Sir ! 
And  if  ever  you  find  me  out,  Sir,  doing  anything  against  your 
wishes,  I  give  you  leave  to  kill  me." 

"  You  dog !  "  said  Mr.  Carker,  leaning  back  in  his  chair, 
and  smiling  at  him  serenely.  "That's  nothing  to  what  I'd  do 
to  you,  if  you  tried  to  deceive  me." 

"  Yes,  Sir,"  replied  the  abject  Grinder,  "  I'm  sure  you 
would  be  down  upon  me  dreadful.  Sir.  I  wouldn't  attempt  fot 
to  go  and  do  it.  Sir,  not  if  I  was  iMibed  with  golden  guineas." 

Thoroughly  checked  in  his  expectations  of  commendation, 
the  crest-fallen  Grinder  stood  looking  at  his  patron,  and  vainJj 


CONFIDENTIAL  AND  ACCIDENTAL.  t^^-t^ 

endeavoring  not  to  look  at  him,  with  the  uneasiness  which  a 
a  cur  will  often  manifest  in  a  similar  situation. 

"  So  you  have  left  your  old  service,  and  come  here  to  ask 
me  to  take  you  into  mine,  eh  ? "  said  Mr.  Carker. 

"  Yes,  if  you  please,  Sir,"  returned  Rob,  who,  in  doing  so, 
had  acted  on  his  patron's  own  instructions,  but  dared  not  jus- 
tify himself  by  the  least  insinuation  to  that  effect. 

"  Well !  "  said  Mr.  Carker.     "  You  know  me,  boy  ?  " 

"  Please,  Sir,  yes,  Sir,"  returned  Rob,  fumbling  with  his  hat, 
and  still  fixed  by  Mr.  Carker's  eye,  and  fruitlessly  endeavoring 
to  unfix  himself. 

Mr.  Carker  nodded.     "  Take  care,  then  !  " 

Rob  expressed  in  a  number  of  short  bows  his  lively  under- 
standing of  this  caution,  and  was  bowing  himself  back  to  the 
door,  greatly  relieved  by  the  prospect  of  getting  on  the  outside 
of  it,  when  his  patron  stopped  him. 

"  Halloa  !  "  he  cried,  calling  him  roughly  back.  "  You  have 
been — shut  that  door." 

Rob  obeyed  as  if  his  life  had  depended  on  his  alacrity. 

"  You  have  been  used  to  eaves-dropping.  Do  you  know 
what  that  means  ?  " 

"  Listening,  Sir  ?  "  Rob  hazarded,  after  some  embarrassed 
reflection. 

His  patron  nodded.     "  And  watching,  and  so  forth." 

"  I  wouldn't  do  such  a  thing  here.  Sir,"  answered  Rob  ;  "  upon 
my  word  and  honor,  I  wouldn't.  Sir,  I  wish  I  may  die  if  I 
would.  Sir,  for  anything  that  could  be  promised  to  me.  I 
should  consider  it  as  much  as  all  the  world  was  worth,  to  offer 
to  do  such  a  thing,  unless  I  was  ordered,  Sir." 

"  You  had  better  not.  You  have  been  used,  too,  to  bab' 
blingand  tattling,"  said  his  patron  with  perfect  coolness.  "  Be- 
ware of  that  here,  or  you're  a  lost  rascal,"  and  he  smiled  again, 
and  again  cautioned  him  with  his  forefinger. 

The  Grinder's  breath  came  short  and  thick  with  consterna- 
tion. He  tried  to  protest  the  purity  of  his  intentions,  but  could 
only  stare  at  the  smiling  gentleman  in  a  stupor  of  submission, 
with  which  the  smiling  gentleman  seemed  well  enough  satisfied, 
for  he  ordered  him  down  stairs,  after  observing  him  for  some 
moments  in  silence,  and  gave  him  to  understand  that  he  was 
retained  in  his  employment. 

This  was  the  manner  of  Rob  the  Grinder's  engagement  by 
Mr.  Carker,  and  his  awe-stricken  devotion  to  that  gentleman 
had  strengthened  and  increased,  if  possible  with  every  minute 
of  his  service. 


-6^  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

It  was  a  service  of  some  months'  duration,  when  early  on« 
morning,  Rob  opened  the  garden  gate  to  Mr.  Dombey,  who 
was  come  to  breakfast  with  his  master,  by  appointment.  At 
the  same  monent  his  master  himself  came,  hurrying  forth  to  re- 
ceive the  distinguished  guest,  and  give  him  welcome  with  all  his 
teeth. 

"  I  never  thought,"  said  Carker,  when  he  had  assisted  hira 
to  alight  from  his  horse,  "to  see  you  here,  I'm  sure.  This  is 
an  extraordinary  day  in  my  calendar.  No  occasion  is  very 
special  to  a  man  like  you,  who  may  do  anything ;  but  to  a  man 
like  me,  the  case  is  widely  different." 

"You  have  a  tasteful  place  here,  Carker,"  said  Mr.  Dombey, 
condescending  to  stop  upon  the  lawn,  to  look  about  him. 

"  You  can  afford  to  say  so,"  returned  Carker.  ''  Thank 
you." 

"  Indeed,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  in  his  lofty  patronage,  "  any 
one  might  say  so.  As  far  as  it  goes,  it  is  a  very  commodious 
and  well-arranged  place — quite  elegant." 

"  As  far  as  it  goes,  truly,"  returned  Carker,  with  an  air  of 
disparagement.  "It wants  that  qualification.  Well  !  we  have 
said  enough  about  it ;  and  though  you  can  afford  to  praise  it, 
I  thank  you  none  the  less.     Will  you  walk  in?  " 

Mr.  Dombey,  entering  the  house,  noticed,  as  he  had  reason 
to  do,  the  complete  arrangement  of  the  rooms,  and  the  numer- 
ous contrivances  for  comfort  and  effect  that  abounded  there. 
Mr.  Carker,  in  his  ostentation  of  humility,  received  this  notice 
-with  a  defferential  smile,  and  said  he  understood  its  delicate 
meaning,  and  appreciated  it,  but  in  truth  the  cottage  was  good 
enoughfor  one  in  his  position — better,  perhaps,  than  such  a 
man  should  occupy,  poor  as  it  was. 

"But  perhaps  to  you,  who  are  so  far  removed,  it  really  does 
look  better  than  it  is,"  he  said,  with  his  false  mouth  distended 
to  its  fullest  stretch.  "Just  as  monarchs  imagine  attractions  in 
the  lives  of  beggars." 

He  directed  a  sharp  glance  and  a  sharp  smile  at  Mr.  Dom- 
bey as  he  spoke,  and  a  sharper  glance,  and  a  sharper  smile  yet, 
when  Mr.  Dombey,  drawing  himself  up  before  the  fire,  in  the 
attitude  so  often  copied  by  his  second  in  command,  looked 
round  at  the  pictures  on  the  walls.  Cursorily  as  his  cold  eye 
wandered  over  them,  Carker's  keen  glance  accompanied  his, 
and  kept  pace  with  his,  marking  exactly  where  it  went,  and 
■what  it  saw.  As  it  rested  on  one  picture  in  particular,  Carker 
hardly  seemed  to  breathe,  his  sidelong  scrutiny  was  so  catlike 
and  vigilant,  but  the  eye  of  his  great  chief  passed  from  that,  49 


CONFIDENTIAL  AND  ACCIDENTAL.  565 

from  the  others,  and  appeared  no  more  impressed  by  it  than  by 
the  rest. 

Carker  looked  at  it — it  was  the  picture  that  resembled  Edith 
— as  if  it  were  a  living  thing  ;  and  with  a  wicked,  silent  laugh 
upon  his  face,  that  seemed  in  part  addressed  to  it,  though  it 
was  all  derisive  of  the  great  man  standing  so  unconscious  beside 
him.  Breakfast  was  soon  set  upon  the  table  :  and,  inviting  Mr. 
Dombey  to  a  chair  which  had  its  back  towards  this  picture,  he 
took  his  own  seat  opposite  to  it  as  usual. 

Mr.  Dombey  was  even  graver  than  it  was  his  custom  to  be, 
and  quite  silent.  The  parrot,  swinging  in  the  gilded  hoop 
within  her  gaudy  cage,  attempted  in  vain  to  attract  notice,  for 
Carker  was  too  observant  of  his  visitor  to  heed  her  ;  and  the 
visitor,  abstracted  in  meditation,  looked  fixedly,  not  to  say  sul- 
lenly, over  his  stiff  neckcloth,  without  raising  his  eyes  from  the 
table-cloth.  As  to  Rob,  who  was  in  attendance,  all  his  faculties 
and  energies  were  so  locked  up  in  observation  of  his  master, 
that  he  scarcely  ventured  to  give  shelter  to  the  thought  that  the 
visitor  was  the  great  gentleman  before  whom  he  had  been  car- 
rtsd  as  a  certificate  of  the  family  health,  in  his  childhood,  and 
to  whom  he  had  been  indebted  for  his  leather  smalls. 

"Allow  me,"  said  Carker  suddenly,  "to  ask  how  Mrs. 
Dombey  is  ? " 

He  leaned  forward  obsequiously,  as  he  made  the  inquiry, 
with  his  chin  resting  on  his  hand  ;  and  at  the  same  time  his 
eyes  went  up  to  the  picture,  as  if  he  said  to  it,  "  Now,  see,  how 
I  will  lead  him  on  ! " 

Mr.  Dombey  reddened  as  he  answered  : 

"  Mrs.  Dombey  is  quite  well.  You  remind  me,  Carker,  of 
some  conversation  that  I  wish  to  have  with  you." 

"  Robin,  you  can  leave  us,"  said  his  master,  at  whose  mild 
tones  Robin  started  and  disappeared,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  his 
patron  to  the  last.  "  You  don't  remember  that  boy,  of  course  ?  " 
he  added,  when  the  immeshed  Grinder  was  gone. 

"  No,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  with  magnificent  indifference. 

"  Not  likely  that  a  man  like  you  would.  Hardly  possible," 
murmured  Carker.  "  But  he  is  one  of  that  family  from  whom 
you  took  a  nurse.  Perhaps  you  may  remember  having  gener- 
ously charged  yourself  with  his  education  ?  " 

"  Is  it  that  boy  ? "  said  Mr.  Dombey,  with  a  frown.  "  He 
does  little  credit  to  his  education,  I  believe." 

"  Why,  he  is  a  young  rip,  I  am  afraid,"  returned  Carker, 
with  a  shrug.  "  He  bears  that  character.  But  the  truth  is,  I 
took  him  into  my  service  because,  being  able  to  get  no  other 


566  DOMBh  Y  AND  SON, 

employment,  he  conceived  (had  been  taught  at  home,  I  dare 
say)  that  he  had  some  sort  of  claim  upon  you,  and  was  con- 
stantly trying  to  dog  your  heels  with  his  petition.  And  al- 
though my  defined  and  recognized  connection  with  your  affairs 
is  merely  of  a  business  character,  still  1  have  that  spontaneous 
interest  in  everything  belonging  to  you,  that — " 

He  stopped  again,  as  if  to  discover  whether  he  had  led  Mr. 
Dombey  far  enough  yet.  And  again,  with  his  chin  resting  on 
his  hand,  he  leered  at  the  picture. 

"  Carker,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "I  am  sensible  that  you  do 
not  limit  your " 

"  Service,"  suggested  his  smiling  entertainer. 

"No  ;  I  prefer  to  say  your  regard,"  observed  Mr.  Dombey; 
very  sensible,  as  he  said  so,  that  he  was  paying  him  a  handsome 
and  Mattering  compliment,  "  to  our  mere  business  relations. 
Your  consideration  for  my  feelings,  hopes,  and  disappoint- 
ments, in  the  little  instance  you  have  just  now  mentioned,  is 
an  example  in  point.     I  am  obliged  to  you,  Carker." 

Mr.  Carker  bent  his  head  slowly,  and  very  softly  rubbed  his 
Lands,  as  if  he  were  afraid  by  any  action  to  disturb  the  current 
of  Mr.  Dombey's  confidence. 

"  Your  al'usion  to  it  is  opportune,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  after 
a  little  hesitation  ,  "  for  it  prepares  the  way  to  what  I  was  be- 
ginning to  say  to  you,  and  reminds  me  that  that  involves  no  ab- 
solutely new  relations  between  us,  although  it  may  involve 
more  personal  confidence  on  my  part  than  I  have  hitherto " 

"Distinguished  me  with,"  suggested  Carker,  bending  his 
head  again  :  "  I  will  not  say  to  you  how  honored  I  am  ;  for  a 
man  like  you  well  knows  how  much  honor  he  has  in  his  power 
to  bestow  at  pleasure." 

"Mrs.  Dombey  and  myself,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  passing  this 
compliment  with  august  self-denial,  "are  not  quite  agreed  upon 
some  points.  We  do  not  appear  to  understand  each  other  yet. 
Mrs.  Dombey  has  something  to  learn." 

"  Mrs.  Dombey  is  distinguished  by  many  rare  attractions  \ 
and  has  been  accustomed,  no  doubt,  to  receive  much  adula- 
tion," said  the  smooth,  sleek  watcher  of  his  slightest  look  and 
tone.  "  J5ut  where  there  is  affection,  dirty,  and  respect,  any 
little  mistakes  engendered  by  such  causes  are  soon  set  right." 

Mr.  Dombey's  thoughts  instinctively  flew  back  to  the  face 
that  had  looked  at  him  in  his  wife's  dressing-room,  when  an 
imperious  hand  was  stretched  towards  the  door  ;  and  remem- 
bering the  affection,  duty,  and  respect,  expressed  in  it,  he  felt 
the  blood  rush  to  his  own  face  qaite  as  plainly  as  the  watchful 
eyes  upon  him  saw  it  there. 


CONFIDENTIAL  AND  ACCIDENTAL.  567 

"Mrs.  Dombey  and  myself,"  he  went  on  to  say,  "had  some 
discussion,  before  Mrs.  Skewton's  death,  upon  the  causes  of 
my  dissatisfaction  ;  of  which  you  will  have  formed  a  general 
understanding  from  having  been  a  witness  of  what  passed  be- 
tween Mrs.  Dombey  and  myself  on  the  evening  when  you  were 
at  our — at  my  house." 

"  When  I  so  much  regretted  being  present,"  said  the  smil- 
ing Carker.  "  Proud  as  a  man  in  my  position  necessarily  must 
be  of  your  familiar  notice — though  I  give  you  no  credit  for  it ; 
you  may  do  anything  you  please  without  losing  caste — and 
honored  as  I  was  by  an  early  presentation  to  Mrs.  Dombey, 
before  she  was  made  eminent  by  bearing  your  name,  I  almost 
regretted  that  night,  I  assure  you,  that  I  had  been  the  object 
of  such  especial  good  fortune." 

That  any  man  could,  under  any  possible  circumstances, 
regret  the  being  distinguished  by  his  condescension  and  pat- 
ronage, was  a  mortal  phenomenon  which  Mr.  Dombey  could 
not  comprehend.  He  therefore  responded,  with  a  considerable 
accession  of  dignity.     "  Indeed  !     And  why,  Carker?  " 

"  I  fear,"  returned  the  confidential  agent,  "  that  Mrs.  Dom- 
bey, never  very  much  disposed  to  regard  me  with  favorable  in- 
terest— one  in  my  position  could  not  expect  that,  from  a  lady 
naturally  proud,  and  whose  pride  becomes  her  so  well — may 
not  easily  forgive  my  innocent  part  in  that  conversation.  Your 
displeasure  is  no  light  matter,  you  must  remember ;  and  to  be 
visited  with  it  before  a  third  party " 

"  Carker,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  arrogantly  ;  "  I  presume  that 
1  am  the  first  consideration  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  Can  there  be  a  doubt  about  it  ?  "  replied  the  other, 
with  the  impatience  of  a  man  admitting  a  notorious  and  incon- 
trovertible fact. 

"Mrs.  Dombey  becomes  a  secondary  consideration,  when 
we  are  both  in  question,  I  imagine,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "  Is 
that  so  ?  " 

"  Is  it  so  ?  "  returned  Carker.  "  Do  you  know  better  than 
any  one,  that  you  have  no  need  to  ask  ?  " 

"  Then  I  hope,  Carker,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "  that  your  re- 
gret in  the  acquisition  of  Mrs.  Dombey's  displeasure,  may  be 
almost  counterbalanced  by  your  satisfaction  in  retaining  my 
confidence  and  good  opinion." 

"  I  have  the  misfortune,  I  find,"  returned  Carker,  "  to  have 
incurred  that  displeasure.  Mrs.  Dombey  has  expressed  it  to 
you  ? " 

*'  Mrs.  Dombey  has  expressed  v^irious  opinions,"  said  Mr. 


ggg  DOMBEY  AND  SON, 

Dombey,  with  majestic  coldness  and  indifference,  "in  which  1 
do  not  participate,  and  which  I  am  not  inclined  to  discuss,  ot 
to  recall.  I  made  Mrs.  Dombey  acquainted,  some  time  since, 
as  I  have  already  told  you,  with  certain  points  of  domestic  de- 
ference and  submission  on  which  I  felt  it  necessary  to  insist. 
I  failed  to  convince  Mrs.  Dombey  of  the  expediency  of  her 
immediately  altering  her  conduct  in  those  respects,  with  a  view 
to  her  own  peace  and  welfare,  and  my  dignity  ;  and  I  informed 
Mrs.  Dombey  that  if  1  should  find  it  necessary  to  object  or  re- 
monstrate again,  I  should  express  my  opinion  to  her  through 
yourself,  my  confidential  agent." 

Blended  with  the  look  that  Carker  bent  upon  him,  was  a 
devilish  look  at  the  picture  over  his  he?d,  that  struck  upon  it 
like  a  flash  of  lightning. 

"Now,  Carker,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "I  do  not  hesitate  to 
say  to  you  that  I  ^vill  carry  my  point.  I  am  not  to  be  trifled 
with.  Mrs.  Dombey  must  understand  that  my  will  is  law,  and 
that  I  cannot  allow  of  one  exception  to  the  whole  rule  of  my 
life.  You  will  have  the  goodness  to  undertake  this  charge, 
which,  coming  from  me,  is  not  unacceptable  to  you,  I  hope, 
whatever  regret  you  may  politely  profess — for  which  I  am 
obliged  to  you  on  behalf  of  Mrs.  Dombey  ;  and  you  will  have 
the  goodness,  I  am  persuaded,  to  discharge  it  as  exactly  as 
any  other  commission." 

"  You  know,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  "  that  you  have  only  to 
command  me." 

"  I  know,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  with  a  majestic  indication  of 
assent,  "  that  I  have  only  to  command  you.  It  is  necessary 
that  I  should  proceed  in  this.  Mrs.  Dombey  is  a  lady  un- 
doubtedly highly  qualified,  in  many  respects,  to " 

"To  do  credit  even  to  your  choice,"  suggested  Carker,  with 
a  fawning  show  of  teeth. 

"  Yes  ;  if  you  please  to  adopt  that  form  of  words,"  said  Mr. 
Dombey,  in  his  tone  of  state  ;  "and  at  present  J  do  not  con- 
ceive that  Mrs.  Dombey  does  that  credit  to  it,  to  which  it  is 
entitled.  There  is  a  principle  of  opposition  in  Mrs.  Dombey 
that  must  be  eradicated  ;  that  must  be  overcome  :  Mrs.  Dom- 
bey does  not  appear  to  understand,"-said  Mr.  Dombey,  forci- 
bly, "that  the  idea  of  opposition  to  Me  is  monstrous  and 
absurd." 

"We,  in  the  City,  know  you  better,"  replied  Carker,  with  a 
smile  from  ear  to  ear. 

"  You  know  me  better,"  said  Mr.  Dombey.  "  I  hope  so. 
Though,  indeed,  I  am  bound  to  do  Mrs.  Dombey  the  justice  of 


CONFIDENTIAL  AND  ACCIDENTAL.  ^(y^ 

saying,  however  inconsistent  it  may  seem  with  her  subsequenX 
conduct  (which  remains  unchanged),  that  on  my  expressing 
my  disapprobation  and  determination  to  her,  with  some  sever- 
ity, on  the  occasion  to  which  I  have  referred,  my  admonition 
appeared  to  produce  a  very  powerful  effect."  Mr.  Dombey 
dehvered  himself  of  those  words  with  most  portentous  stateLi- 
ness.  "  I  wish  you  to  have  the  goodness,  then,  to  inform  Mrs. 
Dombey,  Carker,  from  me,  that  I  must  recall  our  former  con- 
versation to  her  remembrance,  in  some  surprise  that  it  has  not 
yet  had  its  effect.  That  I  must  insist  upon  her  regulating  her 
conduct  by  the  injunctions  laid  upon  her  in  that  conversation. 
That  I  am  not  satisfied  with  her  conduct.  That  I  am  greatly 
dissatisfied  with  it.  And  that  I  shall  be  under  the  very  dis- 
agreeable necessity  of  making  you  the  bearer  of  yet  more  un- 
welcome and  explicit  communications,  if  she  has  not  the  good 
sense  and  the  proper  feeling  to  adapt  herself  to  my  wishes,  as 
the  first  Mrs.  Dombey  did,  and,  I  believe  I  may  add,  as  any 
other  lady  in  her  place  would." 

"  The  first  Mrs.  Dombey  lived  very  happily,"  said  Carker. 

"  The  first  Mrs.  Dombey  had  great  good  sense,"  said  Mr. 
Dombey,  in  a  gentlemanly  toleration  of  the  dead,  "  and  very 
correct  feeling." 

"Is  Miss  Dombey  like  her  mother,  do  you  think?"  said 
Carker. 

Swiftly  and  darkly,  Mr.  Dombey's  face  changed.  His  con- 
fidential agent  eyed  it  keenly, 

"  I  have  approached  a  painful  subject,''  he  said,  in  a  soft 
regretful  tone  of  voice,  irreconcileable  with  his  eager  eye. 
"  Pray  forgive  me.  I  forget  these  chains  of  association  in  the 
interest  I  have.     Pray  forgive  me." 

But  for  all  he  said,  his  eager  eye  scanned  Mr.  Dombey's 
downcast  face  none  the  less  closely ;  and  then  it  shot  a  strange 
triumphant  look  at  the  picture,  as  appealing  to  it  to  bear  wit- 
ness how  he  led  him  on  again,  and  what  was  coming. 

"Carker,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  looking  here  and  there  upon 
the  table,  and  speaking  in  a  somewhat  altered  and  more  hur- 
ried voice,  and  with  a  paler  lip,  "  there  is  no  occasion  for 
apology.  You  mistake.  The  association  is  with  the  matter 
in  hand,  and  not  with  any  recollection,  as  you  suppose.  I  do 
not  approve  of  Mrs.  Dombey's  behavior  towards  my  daughter." 

"  Pardon  me,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  "  I  don't  quite  under- 
stand." 

"  Understand  then,"  returned  Mr.  Dombey,  "  that  you  may 
Hiake  that — that  you  will  make  that,  if  you  please— matter  of 


57° 


DOMBE  Y  AND  SON. 


direct  objection  from  me  to  Mrs.  Dombey.  You  will  please  to 
tell  her  that  her  show  of  devotion  for  my  daughter  is  disagree- 
able to  me.  It  is  likely  to  be  noticed.  It  is  likely  to  induce, 
people  to  contrast  Mrs,  Dombey  in  her  relation  towards  my 
daughter,  with  Mrs.  Dombey  in  her  relation  towards  myself. 
You  will  have  the  goodness  to  let  Mrs.  Dombey  know,  plainly, 
that  I  object  to  it ;  and  that  I  expect  her  to  defer,  immediately, 
to  my  objection.  Mrs.  Dombey  may  be  in  earnest,  or  she  may 
be  pursuing  a  whim,  or  she  may  be  opposing  me  ;  but  I  object 
to  it  in  any  case,  and  in  every  case.  If  Mrs.  Dombey  is  in 
earnest,  so  much  the  less  reluctant  should  she  be  to  desist ; 
for  she  will  not  serve  my  daughter  by  any  such  display.  If 
my  wife  has  any  superfluous  gentleness  and  duty  over  and 
above  her  proper  submission  to  me,  she  may  bestow  them 
where  she  pleases,  perhaps  ;  but  I  will  have  submission  first  1 
— Carker,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  checking  the  unusual  emotion 
with  which  he  had  spoken,  and  falling  into  a  tone  more  like 
that  in  which  he  was  accustomed  to  assert  his  greatness,  "  You 
will  have  the  goodness  not  to  omit  or  slur  this  point,  but  to 
consider  it  a  very  important  part  of  your  instructions." 

Mr.  Carker  bowed  his  head,  and  rising  from  the  table,  and 
standing  thoughtfully  before  the  fire,  with  his  hand  to  his 
smooth  chin,  looked  down  at  Mr.  Dombey  with  the  evil  slyness 
of  some  monkish  carving,  half  human  and  half  brute  ;  or  like  a 
leering  face  on  an  old  water-spout.  Mr.  Dombey,  recovering 
his  composure  by  degrees,  or  cooling  his  emotion  in  his  sense 
of  having  taken  a  high  position,  sat  gradually  stiffening  again, 
and  looking  at  the  parrot  as  she  swung  to  and  fro,  in  her  great 
wedding  ring. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Carker,  after  a  silence,  suddenly 
resuming  his  chair,  and  drawing  it  opposite  to  Mr.  Dombey's, 
"  but  let  me  understand.     Mrs.  Dombey  is  aware  of  the  prob- 
ability of  your  making  me  the  organ  of  your  displeasure  ? " 
"Yes,"  replied  Mr.  Dombey.     "  I  have  said  so." 
"  Yes,"  rejoined  Carker,  quickly  ;  "  but  why  ?  " 
"  Why !  "   Mr.  Dombey  repeated,  not  without  hesitation. 
"  Because  I  told  her." 

"  Ay,"  replied  Carker.  "  But  why  did  you  tell  her  ?  You 
see,"  he  continued  with  a  smile,  and  softly  laying  his  velvet 
hand,  as  a  cat  might  have  laid  its  sheathed  claws,  on  Mr.  Dom- 
bey's  arm  ;  "  if  I  perfectly  iniderstand  what  is  in  your  mind,  I 
am  so  much  more  likely  to  be  useful,  and  to  have  the  happiness 
of  being  effectually  employed.  I  think  I  do  understand.  I 
have  not  the  honor  of  Mrs.  Dombey's  good  opinion.     In  my 


CONl^IDEx\'TlAL  Alv£>  ACCTDJ-NTAL  57* 

position,  I  have  no  reason  to  expect  it ;  but  I  take  Ihe  fact  to 
be,  that  I  have  not  got  it  ? " 

"  Possibly  not,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  Consequently,"  pursued  Carker,  "  your  making  these  com- 
munications to  Mrs.  Dombey  through  me,  is  sure  to  be  particu- 
larly  unpalatable  to  that  lady  ?  " 

"  It  appears  to  me,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  with  haughty  re- 
serve, and  yet  with  some  embarrassment,  "  that  Mrs.  Dombey's 
views  upon  the  subject  form  no  part  of  it  as  it  presents  itself 
to  you  and  me,  Carker.     But  it  may  be  so." 

"  And — pardon  me — do  I  misconceive  you,"  said  Carker, 
"  when  I  think  you  descry  in  this,  a  likely  means  of  humbling 
Mrs.  Dombey's  pride — I  use  the  word  as  expressive  of  a  qual- 
ity which,  kept  within  due  bounds,  adorns  and  graces  a  lady  so 
distinguished  for  her  beauty  and  accomplishments — and,  not 
to  say  of  punishing  her,  but  of  reducing  her  to  the  submission 
you  so  naturally  and  justly  require .?  " 

"  I  am  not  accustomed,  Carker,  as  you  know,"  said  Mr. 
Dombey,  "  to  give  such  close  reasons  for  any  course  of  con- 
duct I  think  proper  to  adopt,  but  I  will  gainsay  nothing  of  this. 
If  you  have  any  objections  to  found  upon  it,  that  is  indeed 
another  thing,  and  the  mere  statement  that  you  have  one  will 
be  sufficient.  But  I  have  not  supposed,  I  confess,  that  any 
confidence  I  could  intrust  to  you,  would  be  likely  to  degrade 
you — " 

"Oh!  /degraded  !"  exclaimed  Carker.  "In  your  ser- 
vice !  " 

" — or  to  place  you,"  pursued  Mr,  Dombey,  "  in  a  false  posi- 
tion." 

" /in  a  false  position  !"  exclaimed  Carker.  "I  shall  be 
proud — delighted — to  execute  your  trust.  I  could  have  wished, 
I  own,  to  have  given  the  lady  at  whose  feet  I  would  lay  my 
humble  duty  and  devotion — for  is  she  not  your  wife  ! — no  new 
cause  of  dislike  ;  but  a  wish  from  you  is,  of  course,  paramount 
to  every  other  consideration  on  earth.  Besides,  when  Mrs. 
Dombey  is  converted  from  these  little  errors  of  judgment,  in- 
cidental, I  would  presume  to  say,  to  the  novelty  of  her  situa- 
tion, I  shall  hope  that  she  will  perceive  in  the  slight  part  I  take, 
only  a  grain — my  removed  and  different  sphere  gives  room  for 
little  more — of  the  respect  for  you,  and  sacrifice  of  all  consider- 
ations to  you,  of  which  it  will  be  her  pleasure  and  privilege  to 
garner  up  a  great  store  every  day." 

Mr.  Dombey  seemed,  at  the  moment,  again  to  see  her  with 
her  hand  stretched  out  towards  the  door,   and  again  to  hear 


^  y  2  DOMBE  Y  AND  SOJ^ 

through  the  mild  speech  of  his  confidential  agent  an  echo  ol 
the  words,  "  Nothing  can  make  us  stranger  to  each  other  than 
we  are  lienceforth  ? "  But  he  shook  off  the  fancy,  and  did  not 
shake  in  his  resolution,  and  said,  "  Certainly,  no  doubt." 

"  There  is  nothing  more,"  quoth  Carker,  drawing  his  chair 
back  to  its  old  place— for  they  had  taken  little  breakfast  as  yet 
— and  pausing  for  an  answer  before  he  sat  down. 

"Nothing,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "but  this.  You  will  be 
good  enough  to  observe,  Carker,  that  no  message  to  Mrs.  Dom- 
bey with  which  you  are  or  may  be  charged,  admits  of  reply. 
You  will  be  good  enough  to  bring  me  no  reply.  Mrs.  Dombey 
is  informed  that  it  does  not  become  me  to  temporize  or  treat 
upon  any  matter  that  is  at  issue  between  us,  and  that  what  I 
say  is  final." 

Mr.  Carker  signified  his  understanding  of  these  credentials, 
and  they  fell  to  breakfast  with  what  appetite  they  might.  The 
Grinder  also,  in  due  time,  re-appeaied,  keeping  his  eyes  upon 
his  master  without  a  moment's  respite,  and  passing  the  time  in 
a  reverie  of  worshipful  terror.  Breakfast  concluded,  Mr.  Dom- 
bey's  horse  was  ordered  out  again,  and  Mr.  Carker  mounting 
his  own,  they  rode  off  for  the  City  together. 

Mr.  Carker  was  in  capital  spirits,  and  talked  much.  Mr. 
Dombey  received  his  conversation  with  the  sovereign  air  of  a 
man  who  had  a  right  to  be  talked  to  and  occasionally  conde- 
scended to  throw  in  a  few  words  to  carry  on  the  conversation. 
So  they  rode  on  characteristically  enough.  But  Mr.  Dombey, 
in  his  dignity,  rode  with  very  long  stirrups,  and  a  very  loose 
rein,  and  very  rarely  deigned  to  look  down  to  see  where 
his  horse  went.  In  consequence  of  which  it  happened  that 
Mr.  Dombey's  horse,  while  going  at  a  round  trot,  stumbled 
on  some  loose  stones,  threw  him,  rolled  over  him,  and  lashing 
out  with  his  iron-shod  feet,  in  his  struggles  to  get  up,  kicked 
him. 

Mr.  Carker,  quick  of  eye,  steady  of  hand,  and  a  good  horse- 
man, was  afoot,  and  had  the  struggling  animal  upon  his  legs 
and  by  the  bridle,  in  a  moment.  Otherwise  that  morning's 
confidence  would  have  been  Mr.  Dombey's  last.  Yet  even 
with  the  Hush  and  hurry  of  this  action  red  upon  him,  he  bent 
over  his  prostrate  chief  with  every  tooth  disclosed,  and  mut« 
tercd  as  he  stooped  down,  "  I  have  given  good  cause  of  ofi'ence 
to  Mrs.  Dombey  tumi,  if  she  knew  it  !  " 

Mr.  Dombey  being  insensible,  and  bleeding  from  the  head 
and  face,  was  carried  by  certain  menders  of  the  road,  under 
Carker's  direction,  to  the  nearest  public-house,  which  was  not 


td^FlDENTtAL  AND  ACCIDENTAL  ^^3 

far  off,  and  where  he  was  soon  attended  by  divers  surgeonSj 
who  arrived  in  quick  succession  from  all  parts,  and  who  seemed 
to  come  by  some  mysterious  instinct,  as  vultures  are  said  to 
gather  about  a  camel  who  dies  in  the  desert.  After  being  at 
some  pains  to  restore  him  to  consciousness,  these  gentlemen 
examined  into  the  nature  of  his  injuries.  One  surgeon  who 
lived  hard  by  was  strong  for  a  compound  fracture  of  the  leg, 
which  was  the  landlord's  opinion  also  ;  but  two  surgeons  who 
lived  at  a  distance,  and  were  only  in  that  neighborhood  by  ac- 
cident, combated  this  opinion  so  disinterestedly,  that  it  was 
decided  at  last  that  the  patient,  though  severely  cut  and  bruised, 
had  broken  no  bones  but  a  lesser  rib  or  so,  and  might  be  carefully 
taken  home  before  night.  His  injuries  being  dressed  and  ban- 
daged, which  was  a  long  operation,  and  he  at  length  left  to  re- 
pose, Mr.  Carker  mounted  his  horse  again,  and  rode  away  to 
carry  the  intelligence  home. 

Crafty  and  cruel  as  his  face  was  at  the  best  of  times,  though 
it  was  a  sufficiently  fair  face  as  to  form  and  regularity  of  fea- 
ture, it  was  at  its  worst  when  he  set  forth  on  this  errand  ;  ani- 
mated by  the  craft  and  cruelty  of  thoughts  within  him,  sugges- 
tions of  remote  possibility  rather  than  of  design  or  plot,  that 
made  him  ride  as  if  he  hunted  men  and  women.  Drawing  rein 
at  length,  and  slackening  in  his  speed,  as  he  came  mto  the 
more  public  roads,  he  checked  his  white-legged  horse  into  pick- 
ing his  way  along  as  usual,  and  hid  himself  beneath  his  sleek, 
hushed,  crouched  manner,  and  his  ivory  smile,  as  he  best  could. 

He  rode  direct  to  Mr.  Dombey's  house,  alighted  at  the  door, 
and  begged  to  see  Mrs.  Dombey  on  an  affair  of  importance. 
The  servant  who  showed  him  to  Mr.  Dombey's  own  room,  soon 
returned  to  say  that  it  was  not  Mrs.  Dombey's  hour  for  receiv- 
ing visitors,  and  that  he  begged  pardon  for  not  having  men- 
tioned it  before. 

Mr.  Carker,  who  was  quite  prepared  for  a  cold  reception, 
wrote  upon  a  card  that  he  must  take  the  liberty  of  pressing  for 
an  interview,  and  that  he  would  not  be  so  bold  as  to  do  so, 
for  the  second  t'mie  (this  he  underlined),  if  he  were  not  equally 
sure  of  the  occasion  being  sufficient  for  his  justification.  After 
a  trifling  delay,  Mrs.  Dombey's  maid  appeared,  and  conducted 
him  to  a  morning  room  up  stairs,  where  Edith  and  Florence 
were  together. 

He  had  never  thought  Edith  half  so  beautiful  before.  Much 
as  he  admired  the  graces  of  her  face  and  form,  and  freshly  as 
they  dwelt  within  his  sensual  remembrance,  he  haf*  ?>ever. 
thought  her  half  so  beautifuL 


574  bOMBEY  AND  SOM. 

Her  glanced  fell  haughtily  upon  him  in  the  doorway ;  but  he 
looked  at  Florence— though  only  in  the  act  of  bending  his  head 
as  he  came  in — with  some  irrepressible  expression  of  the  new 
power  he  held ;  and  it  was  his  triumph  to  see  the  glance  droop 
and  falter,  and  to  see  that  Edith  half  rose  up  to  receive  him. 

He  was  very  sorry,  he  was  deeply  grieved ;  he  couldn't  say 
with  what  unwillingness  he  came  to  prepare  her  for  the  intelli- 
gence of  a  very  slight  accident.  He  entreated  Mrs.  Dombey 
to  compose  herself.  Upon  his  secret  word  of  honor,  there  was 
no  cause  of  alarm.     But  Mr.  Dombey 

Florence  uttered  a  sudden  cry.  He  did  not  look  at  her,  but 
at  Edith.  Edith  composed  and  re-assured  her.  She  uttered 
no  cry  of  distress.     No,  no. 

Mr.  Dombey  had  met  with  an  accident  in  riding.  His  horse 
had  slipped,  and  he  had  been  thrown. 

Florence  wildy  exclaimed  that  he  was  badly  hurt;  that  he 
was  killed ! 

No.  Upon  his  honor,  Mr.  Dombey,  though  stunned  at  first, 
was  soon  recovered,  and  though  certainly  hurt  was  in  no  kind  of 
danger.  If  this  were  not  the  truth,  he,  the  distressed  intruder, 
never  could  have  had  the  courage  to  present  himself  before 
Mrs.  Dombey.      It    was    the  truth  indeed,  he  solemnly  assured 

her. 

All  this  he  said  as  if  he  were  answering  Edith,  and  not 
Florence,  and  with  his  eyes  and  his  smile  fastened  on  Edith. 

He  then  went  on  to  tell  her  where  Mr.  Dombey  was  lying, 
and  to  request  that  a  carriage  might  be  placed  at  his  disposal 
to  bring  him  home. 

"Mama,"  faltered  Florence  in  tears,  "if  I  might  venture 
to  go ! " 

Mr.  Carker,  having  his  eyes  on  Edith  when  he  heard  these 
words,  gave  her  a  secret  look  and  slightly  shook  his  head.  He 
saw  how  she  battled  with  herself  before  she  answered  him  with 
her  handsome  eyes,  but  he  wrested  the  answer  from  her— he 
showed  her  that  he  would  have  it,  or  that  he  would  speak  and 
cut  Florence  to  the  heart— and  she  gave  it  to  him.  As  he  had 
looked  at  the  picture  in  the  morning,  so  he  looked  at  her  after- 
wards, when  she  turned  her  eyes  away. 

"I  am  directed  to  request,"  he  said,  "that  the  new  house- 
keeper—Mrs. Pipchin,  I  think  is  the  name—" 

Nothing  escaped  him.  He  saw  in  an  instant,  that  she  was 
another  slight  of  Mr.  Dombey's  on  his  wife. 

"-may  be  informed  that  Mr.  Dombey  wishes  to  have  his  bed 
prepared   in   his   own  apartments  down  stairs,  as  he  prefers  those 


CONFIDENTIAL  AND  ACCIDENTAL  57^ 

rooms  10  any  other.  I  shall  return  to  Mr.  Dombey  almost  imme- 
diately. That  every  possible  attention  has  been  paid  to  his  com- 
iort,  and  that  he  is  the  object  of  every  possible  solicitude,  I  need 
not  assure  you,  Madam.  Let  me  again  say,  there  is  no  cause  for 
the  least  alarm.     Even  you  may  be  quite  at  ease,  believe  me." 

He  bowed  himself  out,  with  his  extremest  show  of  defer- 
ence and  conciliation  ;  and  having  returned  to  Mr.  Dombey's 
room,  and  there  arranged  for  a  carriage  being  sent  after  him  to 
the  City,  mounted  his  horse  again,  and  rode  slowly  thither. 
He  was  very  thoughtful  as  he  went  along,  and  very  thoughtful 
there,  and  very  thoughtful  in  the  carriage  on  his  way  back  to 
the  place  where  Mr.  Dombey  had  been  left.  It  was  only  when 
sitting  by  that  gentleman's  couch  that  he  was  quite  himself  again, 
and  conscious  of  his  teeth. 

About  the  time  of  twilight,  Mr.  Dombey,  grievously  afflicted 
with  aches  and  pains,  was  helped  into  his  carriage,  and  propped 
with  cloaks  and  pillows  on  one  side  of  it,  while  his  confidential 
agent  bore  him  company  upon  the  other.  As  he  was  not  to  be 
shaken,  they  moved  at  little  more  than  a  foot  pace  ;  and  hence 
it  was  quite  dark  when  he  was  brought  home.  Mrs.  Pipchin, 
bitter  and  grim,  and  not  oblivious  of  the  Peruvian  mines,  as  the 
establishment  in  general  had  good  reason  to  know,  received  him 
at  the  door,  and  freshened  the  domestics  with  several  little 
sprinklings  of  wordy  vinegar,  while  they  assisted  in  conveying 
him  to  his  room,  Mr.  Carker  remained  in  attendance  until  he 
was  safe  in  bed,  and  then,  as  he  declined  to  receive  any  female 
visitor,  but  the  excellent  Ogress  who  presided  over  his  house- 
hold, waited  on  Mrs.  Dombey  once  more,  with  his  report  on  her 
lord's  condition. 

He  again  found  Edith  alone  with  Florence,  and  he  again 
addressed  the  whole  of  his  soothing  speech  to  Edith,  as  if  she 
were  a  prey  to  the  liveliest  and  most  affectionate  anxieties.  So 
earnest  he  was  in  his  respectful  sympathy,  that  on  taking  leave, 
he  ventured — with  one  more  glance  towards  Florence  at  the 
moment — to  take  her  hand,  and  bending  over  it,  to  touch  it 
with  his  lips. 

Edith  did  not  withdraw  the  hand,  nor  did  she  strike  his  fair 
face  Y/ith  it,  despite  the  flush  upon  her  cheek,  the  bright  light 
in  her  eyes,  and  the  dilation  of  her  whole  form.  But  when  she 
was  alone  in  her  own  room,  she  struck  it  on  the  marble  chimney- 
shelf,  so  that,  at  one  blow,  it  was  bruised,  and  bled  ;  and  held 
it  from  her,  near  the  shining  fire,  as  if  she  could  have  thrust  it 
in  and  burned  it. 

Far  into  the  night  she  sat  alone,  by  the  sinking  blawi.  In 


-yg  DO.VBEY  AND  SON 

dark  and  Ihreateninp;  beauty,  watching  the  murky  shadows  loom 
ing  on  the  wall,  as  if  her  thoughts  were  tangible,  and  cast  them 
there.  Whatever  shapes  of  outrage  and  affront,  and  black  fore- 
shadowings  of  things  that  might  happen,  flickered,  indistinct 
and  giant  like,  before  her,  one  resented  figure  marshalled  them 
against  her.     And  that  figure  was  her  husband. 


CHAPTER  XLIIl. 

THE   WATCHES    OF    THE    NIGHT. 


Florence,  long  since  awakened  from  her  dream,  mourn- 
fully observed  the  "estrangement  between  her  father  and  Edith, 
and  saw  it  widen  more  and  more,  and  knew  that  there  was 
greater  bitterness  between  them  every  day.  Each  day's  added 
knowledge  deepened  the  shade  upon  her  love  and  hope,  roused 
up  the  old  sorrow  that  had  slumbered  for  a  little  time,  and  made 
it  even  heavier  to  bear  than  it  had  been  before. 

It  had  been  hard — how  hard  may  none  but  Florence  ever 
know  ! — to  have  the  natural  affection  of  a  true  and  earnest  na- 
t\ire  turned  to  agony  ;  and  slight,  or  stern  repulse,  substituted 
for  the  tenderest  protection  and  the  dearest  care.  It  had  been 
hard  to  feel  in  her  deep  heart  what  she  had  felt,  and  never 
know  the  happiness  of  one  touch  of  response.  But  it  was  much 
more  hard  to  be  compelled  to  doubt  either  her  father  or  Edith, 
so  affectionate  and  dear  to  her,  and  to  think  of  her  love  for 
each  of  them,  by  turns,  with  fear,  distrust,  and  wonder. 

Yet  Florence  now  began  to  do  so  ;  and  the  doing  of  it  was 
a  task  imposed  upon  her  by  the  very  purity  of  her  soul,  as  one 
she  could  not  fly  from.  She  saw  her  father  cold  and  obdurate 
to  Edith,  as  to  her  ;  hard,  inflexible,  unyielding.  Could  it  be, 
she  asked  herself  with  starting  tears,  that  her  own  dear  mother 
had  been  made  unhappy  by  such  treatment,  and  had  pined  away 
and  died  ?  Then  she  would  think  how  proud  and  stately  Edith 
was  to  every  one  but  her,  with  what  disdain  she  treated  him,  how 
distantly  she  kept  apart  from  him,  and  what  she  had  said  on  the 
night  when  she  came  home  ;  and  quickly  it  would  come  on  Flor- 
ence, almost  as  a  crime,  that  she  loved  one  who  was  set  in  op- 
position  to  her  father,  and   that  her  father  knowing  of  it,  must 

think  of  l>er  in  his  .solitary  room  as  the  unnatural  child  who 


THE  WATCirES  OF  THE  NIGHT.  ^yy 

idded  this  wrong  to  the  old  fault,  so  rruch  wept  for,  oi  tjever 
having  won  his  fatherly  affection  from  her  birth.  The  next  kind 
word  from  Edith,  the  next  kind  glance,  would  shake  these 
thoughts  again,  and  make  them  seem  like  black  ingratitude  ; 
for  who  but  she  had  cheered  the  drooping  heart  of  Florence,  so 
lonely  and  so  hurt,  and  been  its  best  of  comforters  !  Thus,  with 
her  gentle  nature  yearning  to  them  both,  feeling  the  misery  of 
both,  and  whispering  doubts  of  her  own  duty  to  both,  Florence 
in  her  wider  and  expanded  love,  and  by  the  side  of  Edith,  en- 
dured more  than  when  she  had  hoarded  up  her  undivided  secret 
in  the  mournful  house,  and  her  beautiful  Mama  had  never 
dawned  upon  it. 

One  exquisite  unhappiness  that  would  have  far  outweighed 
this,  Florence  was  spared.  She  never  had  the  least  suspicion 
that  Edith  by  her  tenderness  for  her  widened  the  separation 
from  her  father,  or  gave  him  new  cause  of  dislike.  If  Florence 
had  conceived  the  possibility  of  such  an  effect  being  wrought 
by  such  a  cause,  what  grief  she  would  have  felt,  what  sacrifice 
she  would  have  tried  to  make,  poor  loving  girl,  how  fast  and 
sure  her  quiet  passage  might  have  been  beneath  it  to  the  pres- 
ence of  that  higher  Father  who  does  not  reject  his  children's 
love,  or  spurn  their  tried  and  broken  hearts,  Heaven  knows ! 
But  it  was  otherwise,  and  that  was  well. 

No  word  was  ever  spoken  between  Florence  and  Edith  now, 
on  these  subjects.  Edith  had  said  there  ought  to  be  between 
them,  in  that  wise,  a  division  and  a  silence  like  the  grave  itself  : 
and  Florence  felt  that  she  was  right. 

In  this  state  of  affairs  her  father  was  brought  home  suffer- 
ing and  disabled  ;  and  gloomily  retired  to  his  own  rooms,  where 
he  was  tended  by  servants,  not  approached  by  Edith,  and  had 
no  friend  or  companion  but  Mr.  Carker,  who  withdrew  near 
midnight. 

"And  nice  company  he  is.  Miss  Floy,  said  Susan  Nipper. 
"  Oh,  he's  a  precious  piece  of  goods  !  if  ever  he  wants  a  char- 
acter don't  let  him  come  to  me  whatever  he  does,  that's  all  I 
tell  him." 

"  Dear  Susan,"  urged  Florence,  "  don't  1  " 

"  Oh,  it's  very  well  to  say  '  don't '  Miss  Floy,"  returned  the 
Nipper,  much  exasperated;  "but  raly  begging  your  pardon 
we're  coming  to  such  passes  that  it  turns  all  the  blood  in  a  per- 
son's body  into  pins  and  needles,  with  their  pints  all  ways. 
Don't  mistake  me.  Miss  Floy,  I  don't  mean  nothing  again  your 
ma-in-law  who  has  always  treated  me  as  a  lady  should  though 
she  is  rather  high  I  must  say  not  that  I  have  any  right  to  ob- 


-yg  DOMBE  Y  AND  SON: 

ject  to  that  particular,  but  when  we  come  to  Mrs.  Pipchinsej 
and  having  them  put  over  us  and  keeping  guard  at  your  pa's 
door  Uke  crocodiles  (only  make  us  thankful  that  they  lay  no 
eggs  !)  we  are  a  growing  too  outrageous  !  " 

"  Papa  thinks  well  of  Mrs.  Pipchin,  Susan,>'  returned  Flor- 
ence, "  and  has  a  right  to  choose  his  housekeeper,  you  know. 
Pray  don't ! " 

♦'  Well  Miss  Floy,"  returned  the  Nipper,  "  when  you  say 
don't,  I  never  do  I  hope  but  Mrs.  Pipchin  acts  like  early 
gooseberries  upon  me  Miss,  and  nothing  less." 

Susan  was  unusually  emphatic  and  destitute  of  punctuation 
in  her  discourse  on  this  night,  which  was  the  night  of  Mr. 
Dombey's  being  brought  home,  because,  having  been  sent 
down  stairs  by  Florence  to  inquire  after  him,  she  had  been 
obliged  to  deliver  her  message  to  her  mortal  enemy  Mrs. 
Pipchin ;  who,  without  carrying  it  in  to  Mr.  Dombey,  had 
taken  upon  herself  to  return  what  Miss  Nipper  called  a  hufBsh 
answer,  on  her  own  responsibility.  This,  Susan  Nipper  con- 
strued into  presumption  on  the  part  of  that  exemplary  sufferer 
by  the  Peruvian  mines,  and  a  deed  of  disparagement  upon  her 
young  lady,  that  was  not  to  be  forgiven  ;  and  so  far  her  em- 
phatic state  was  special.  But  she  had  been  in  a  condition  of 
greatly  increased  suspicion  and  distrust,  ever  since  the  mar- 
riage ;  for,  like  most  persons  of  her  quality  of  mind,  who  form 
a  strong  and  sincere  attachment  to  one  in  the  different  station 
which  Florence  occupied,  Susan  was  ver\'  jealous,  and  her 
jealousy  naturally  attached  to  Edith,  who  divided  her  old  em- 
pire, and  came  between  them.  Proud  and  glad  as  Susan  Nip- 
per truly  was,  that  her  young  mistress  should  be  advanced 
towards  her  proper  place  in  the  scene  of  her  old  neglect,  and 
that  she  should  have  her  father's  handsome  wife  for  her  com- 
panion and  protectress,  she  could  not  relinquish  any  part  of 
her  own  dominion  to  the  handsome  wife,  without  a  grudge  and 
a  vague  feeling  of  ill-will,  for  which  she  did  not  fail  to  find  a 
disinterested  justification  in  her  sharp  perception  of  the  pride 
and  passion  of  the  lady's  character.  From  the  background  to 
which  she  had  necessarily  retired  somewhat,  since  the  mar- 
riage. Miss  Nipper  looked  on,  therefore,  at  domestic  affairs  in 
general,  with  a  resolute  conviction  that  no  good  would  come  of 
Mrs.  Dombey  :  always  being  very  careful  to  publish  on  all  pos- 
sible occasions,  that  she  had  nothing  to  say  against  her. 

"Susan,"  said  Florence,  who  was  sitting  thoughtfully  .at 
her  table,  "it  is  rery  late.  1  shall  want  nothing  more  ta 
night." 


THE  WATCHES  Oh^  THE  NiGJiT.  ^^^ 

"  Ah,  Miss  Floy  !  "  returned  the  Nipper,  "  I'm  sure  I  often 
wish  for  them  old  times  when  I  sat  up  with  you  hours  later 
than  this  and  fell  asleep  through  being  tired  out  when  you  was 
as  broad  awake  as  spectacles,  but  you've  ma's-in-law  to  come 
and  sit  with  you  now  Miss  Floy  and  I'm  thankful  for  it  I'm 
sure.     I've  not  a  word  to  say  against  'em." 

"  I  shall  not  forget  who  was  my  old  companion  when  I  had 
none,  Susan,"  returned  Florence,  gently,  "  never  !  "  And  look- 
ing up,  she  put  her  arm  round  the  neck  of  her  humble  friend, 
drew  her  face  down  to  hers,  and  bidding  her  good-night,  kissed 
"t ;  which  so  mollified  Miss  Nipper,  that  she  fell  a  sobbing. 

"  Now  my  dear  Miss  Floy,"  said  Susan,  "  let  me  go  down 
stairs  again  and  see  how  your  pa  is,  I  know  you're  wretched 
about  him,  do  let  me  go  down  stairs  again  and  knock  at  his 
door  my  own  self." 

"  No,"  said  Florence,  "go  to  bed.  We  shall  hear  more  in 
the  morning.  I  will  inquire  myself  in  the  morning.  Mama 
has  been  down,  I  dare  say ; "  Florence  blushed,  for  she  had  no 
such  hope  ;  "  or  is  there  now,  perhaps.     Good-night !  " 

Susan  was  too  much  softened  to  express  her  private  opin- 
ion on  the  probability  of  Mrs.  Dombey's  being  in  attendance 
on  her  husband  ;  and  silently  withdrew.  Florence  left  alone, 
soon  hid  her  head  upon  her  hands  as  she  had  often  done  in 
other  days,  and  did  not  restrain  the  tears  from  coursing  down 
her  face.  The  misery  of  this  domestic  discord  and  unhappi- 
ness  ;  the  withered  hope  she  cherished  now,  if  hope  it  could 
be  called,  of  ever  being  taken  to  her  father's  heart ;  her  doubts 
and  fears  between  the  two  ;  the  yearning  of  her  innocent  breast 
to  both  ;  the  heavy  disappointment  and  regret  of  such  an  end 
as  this,  to  what  had  been  a  vision  of  bright  hope  and  promise 
to  her ;  all  crowded  on  her  mind  and  made  her  tears  flow  fast. 
Her  mother  and  her  brother  dead,  her  father  unmoved  towards 
her,  Edith  opposed  to  him  and  casting  him  away,  but  loving  her, 
and  loved  by  her,  it  seemed  as  if  her  affection  could  never  pros- 
per, rest  where  it  would.  That  weak  thought  was  soon  hushed, 
but  the  thoughts  in  which  it  had  arisen  were  too  true  and  strong 
to  be  dismissed  with  it ;  and  they  made  the  night  desolate. 

Among  such  reflections  there  rose  up,  as  there  had  risen  up 
all  day,  the  image  of  her  father,  wounded  and  in  pain,  alone  in 
kis  own  room,  untended  by  those  who  should  be  nearest  to 
him,  and  passing  the  tardy  hours  in  lonely  suffering.  A 
frightened  thought  which  made  her  start  and  clasp  her  hands 
— though  it  was  not  a  new  one  in  her  mind — that  he  might  die, 
and  never  see  her  or  pronounce  her  name,  thrilled  her  whole 


jgO  DOMSE y  AMD  SOM 

frame.  In  lier  agitation  she  thought,  and  trembled  while  sh6 
thought,  of  once  more  stealing  down  stairs,  and  venturing  to 
his  door. 

She  listened  at  her  own.  The  house  was  quiet,  and  all  the 
lights  were  out.  It  was  a  long,  long  time,  she  thought,  since 
she  used  to  make  her  nightly  pilgrimages  to  his  door !  It  was 
a  long,  long  time,  she  tried  to  think,  since  she  had  entered  his 
room  at  midnight,  and  he  had  led  her  back  to  the  stair-foot ! 

With  the  same  child's  heart  within  her,  as  of  old  :  even 
with  the  child's  sweet  timid  eyes  and  clustering  hair :  Florence, 
as  strange  to  her  father  in  her  early  maiden  bloom,  as  in  her 
nursery  time,  crept  down  the  staircase  listening  as  she  \vent, 
and  drew  near  to  his  room.  No  one  was  stirring  in  the  house. 
The  door  was  partly  open  to  admit  air  ;  and  all  was  so  still 
within,  that  she  could  hear  the  burning  of  the  fire,  and  count 
the  ticking  of  the  clock  that  stood  upon  the  chimney-piece. 

She  looked  in.  In  that  room,  the  housekeeper  wrapped  in 
a  blanket  was  fast  asleep  in  an  easy  chair  before  the  fire.  The 
aoors  between  it  and  the  next  were  partly  closed,  and  a  screen 
was  drawn  before  them ;  but  there  was  a  light  there,  and  it 
shone  upon  the  cornice  of  his  bed.  All  was  so  ver)'  still  that 
she  could  hear  from  his  breathing  that  he  was  asleep.  This 
gave  her  courage  to  pass  round  the  screen,  and  look  into  his 
chamber. 

It  was  as  great  a  start  to  come  upon  his  sleeping  face  as  if 
she  had  not  expected  to  see  it.  Plorence  stood  arrested  on  the 
spot,  and  if  he  had  awakened  then,  must  have  remained  there. 

There  was  a  cut  upon  his  forehead,  and  they  had  been  wet- 
ting his  hair,  which  lay  bedabbled  and  entangled  on  the  pillow. 
One  of  his  arms,  resting  outside  the  bed,  was  bandaged  up, 
and  he  was  very  white.  But  it  was  not  this,  that  after  the  first 
quick  glance,  and  first  assurance  of  his  sleeping  quietly,  held 
Florence  rooted  to  the  ground.  Tt  was  something  very  differ- 
ent from  this,  and  more  than  this,  that  made  him  look  so 
solemn  in  her  eyes. 

She  had  never  seen  his  face  in  all  her  life,  but  there  had 
been  upon  it — or  she  fancied  so — some  disturbing  conscious- 
ness of  her.  She  had  never  seen  his  face  in  all  her  life,  but 
hope  had  sunk  within  her,  and  her  timid  glance  had  drooped 
before  its  stern,  unloving,  and  repelling  harshness.  As  she 
looked  upon  it  now,  she  saw  it  for  the  first  time,  free  from  the 
cloud  that  had  darkened  her  childhood.  Calm,  tranquil  night 
was  reigning  in  its  stead.  He  might  have  gone  to  sleep,  iot 
anything  she  saw  there,  blessing  her. 


THE  WATCHES  OF  THE  NIGHT.  t^%x 

Awake,  unkind  father !  Awake,  now,  sullen  man  !  Tha 
time  is  flitting  by  ;  the  hour  is  coming  with  an  angry  tread. 
Awake  ! 

There  was  no  change  upon  his  face  ;  and  as  she  watched  it, 
awfully,  its  motionless  repose  recalled  the  faces  that  were  gone. 
So  they  looked,  so  would  he ;  so  she,  his  weeping  child,  wh(P 
should  say  when  !  so  all  the  world  of  love  and  hatred  and  indiffer 
ence  around  them  !  When  that  time  should  come,  it  would  ncA 
be  the  heavier  to  him,  for  this  that  she  was  going  to  do  ;  and  it- 
might  fall  something  lighter  upon  her. 

She  stole  close  to  the  bed,  and  drawing  in  her  breath 
bent  down,  and  softly  kissed  him  on  the  face,  and  laid  her  own 
for  one  brief  moment  by  its  side,  and  put  the  arm,  with  which 
she  dared  not  touch  him,  round  about  him  on  the  pillow. 

Awake,  doomed  man,  while  she  is  near.  The  time  is  flit- 
ting by  ;  the  hour  is  coming  with  an  angry  tread  :  its  foot  is  in 
the  house.     Awake  ! 

In  her  mind,  she  prayed  to  God  to  bless  her  father,  and  to 
soften  him  towards  her,  if  it  might  be  so ;  and  if  not,  to  for- 
give him  if  he  was  wrong,  and  pardon  her  the  prayer  which 
almost  seemed  impiety.  And  doing  so,  and  looking  back  at 
him  with  blinded  eyes,  and  stealing  timidly  away,  passed  out 
of  his  room,  and  crossed  the  other,  and  was  gone. 

He  may  sleep  on  now.  He  may  sleep  on  while  he  may. 
But  let  him  look  for  that  slight  figure  when  he  wakes,  and  find 
it  near  him  when  the  hour  is  come  ! 

Sad  and  grieving  was  the  heart  of  Florence,  as  she  crept 
up  stairs.  The  quiet  house  had  grown  more  dismal  since  she 
came  down.  The  sleep  she  had  been  looking  on,  in  the  dead 
of  night,  had  the  solemnity  to  her  of  death  and  life  in  one. 
The  secrecy  and  silence  of  her  own  proceeding  made  the  night 
secret,  silent,  and  oppressive.  She  fell  unwilling,  almost  unable, 
'  to  go  on  to  her  own  chamber ;  and  turning  into  the  drawing- 
rooms,  where  the  clouded  moon  was  shining  through  the  blinds, 
looked  out  into  the  empty  streets. 

The  wind  was  blowing  drearily.  The  lamps  looked  pale, 
and  shook  as  if  they  were  cold.  There  was  a  distant  glimmer 
of  something  that  was  not  quite  darkness,  rather  than  of  light, 
in  the  sky  ;  and  foreboding  night  was  shivering  and  restless. 
as  the  dying  are  who  make  a  troubled  end.  Florence  remem- 
bered how,  as  a  watcher,  by  a  sick  bed,  she  had  noted  this 
bleak  time,  and  felt  its  influence,  as  if  in  some  hidden  natura/ 
antipathy  to  it ;  and  now  it  was  very,  very  gloomy. 

Her  Mam4  had  noX  cQme  tQ  her  room  that  night,  which  wa« 


t9i  DOM  BE  Y  AND  SON. 

one  cause  of  her  having  sat  late  out  of  her  bed.  In  her  general 
uneasiness,  no  less  than  in  her  ardent  longing  to  have  somebody 
to  speak  to,  and  to  break  the  spell  of  gloom  and  silence, 
Florence  directed  her  steps  towards  the  chamber  where  she 
slept. 

The  door  was  not  fastened  within,  and  yielded  smoothly  to 
her  hesitating  hand.  She  was  surprised  to  find  a  bright  light 
burning  ;  still  more  surprised,  on  looking  in,  to  see  that  her 
Mama,  but  partially  undressed,  was  sitting  near  the  ashes  of 
the  fire,  which  had  crumbled  and  dropped  away.  Her  eyes 
were  intently  bent  upon  the  air  ;  and  in  their  light,  and  in  her 
face,  and  in  her  form,  and  in  the  grasp  with  which  she  held 
the  elbows  of  her  chair  as  if  about  to  start  up,  Florence  saw 
such  fierce  emotion  that  it  terrified  her. 

"  Mama  !  "  she  cried,  "  what  is  the  matter?  " 

Edith  started  ;  looking  at  her  with  such  a  strange  dread 
in  her  face,  that  Florence  was  more  frightened  than  before. 

"  Mama  !  "  said  Florence,  hurriedly  advancing.  "  Dear 
Mama  !  what  is  the  matter  ?  " 

"  I  have  not  been  well,"  said  Edith,  shaking,  and  still 
looking  at  her  in  the  same  strange  way.  "  I  have  had  bad 
dreams,  my  love." 

"  And  not  yet  been  to  bed.  Mama  ?  " 

"No,"  she  returned.     "  Half-waking  dreams." 

Her  features  gradually  softened  ;  and  suffering  Florence 
to  come  close  to  her,  within  her  embrace,  she  said  in  a  tender 
manner,  "  But  what  does  my  bird  do  here  ?  What  does  my 
bird  do  here  ? " 

"  I  have  been  uneasy.  Mama,  in  not  seeing  you  to-night,  and 
in  not  knowing  how  Papa  was  ;  and  I " 

Florence  stopped  there,  and  said  no  more. 

"  Is  it  late  ?  "  asked  Edith,  fondly  putting  back  the  curls 
that  mingled  with  her  own  dark  hair,  and  strayed  upon  her 
face. 

"Very  late.     Near  day." 

"  Near  day !  "  she  repeated  in  surprise. 

"  Dear  Mama,  what  have  you  done  to  your  hand }  "  said 
Florence. 

Edith  drew  it  suddenly  away,  and,  for  a  moment,  looked  at 
her  with  the  same  strange  dread  (there  was  a  sort  of  wild 
avoidance  in  it)  as  before  ;  but  she  presently  said,  "  Nothing, 
nothing.  A  blow."  And  then  she  said,  "  My  Florence  !  "  and 
then  her  bosom  heaved,  and  she  was  weeping  passionately. 

♦'Mama!"  said  Florence,     "Oh  Mama,  what  ean  1  do^ 


THE  IV A  TC//JSS  OP  THE  Iv/GHT.  5  S3 

what   should    I    do,    to    make    us   happier  ?      Is   there   any- 
thing i*  " 

"  Nothing,"  she  replied. 

•'  Are  you  sure  of  that  ?  Can  it  never  be  ?  If  I  speak  now 
of  what  is  in  my  thoughts,  in  spite  of  what  we  have  agreed," 
said  Florence,  "you  will  not  blame  me,  will  you  ?  " 

'*  It  is  useless,"  she  replied,  "useless.  I  have  told  you,  dear, 
that  I  have  had  bad  dreams.  Nothing  can  change  them,  or 
prevent  their  coming  back." 

"  I  do  not  understand,"  said  Florence,  gazing  on  her  agi- 
tated face,  which  seemed  to  darken  as  she  looked. 

"  I  have  dreamed,"  said  Edith  in  a  low  voice,  "  of  a  pride 
that  is  all  powerless  for  good,  all  powerful  for  evil ;  of  a  pride 
that  has  been  galled  and  goaded,  through  many  shameful  years, 
and  has  never  recoiled  except  upon  itself  ;  a  pride  that  has 
debased  its  owner  with  the  consciousness  f  deep  humiliation, 
and  never  helped  its  owner  boldly  to  resent  it  or  avoid  it,  or  to 
say,  '  This  shall  not  be  !  '  a  pride  that,  rightly  guided,  might 
have  led  perhaps  to  better  things,  but  which,  misdirected  and 
perverted,  like  all  else  belonging  to  the  same  possessor,  has 
been  self-contempt,  mere  hardihood  and  ruin." 

She  neither  looked  nor  spoke  to  Florence  now,  but  went  on 
as  if  she  were  alone. 

"  I  have  dreamed,"  she  said,  "  of  such  indifference  and  callous- 
ness, arising  from  this  self-contempt ;  this  wretched,  inefficient, 
miserable  pride  ;  that  it  has  gone  on  with  listless  steps  even  to 
the  altar,  yielding  to  the  old,  familiar,  beckoning  finger, — oh 
mother,  oh  mother  ! — while  it  spurned  it ;  and  willing  to  be 
hateful  to  itself  for  once  and  for  all,  rather  than  to  be  stung 
daily  in  some  new  form.     Mean,  poor  thing !  " 

And  now  with  gathering  and  darkening  emotion,  she  looked 
as  she  had  looked  when  Florence  entered. 

"And  I  have  dreamed,"  she  said,  "that  in  a  first  late  effort 
to  achieve  a  purpose,  it  has  been  trodden  on,  and  trodden 
down  by  a  base  foot,  but  turns  and  looks  upon  him.  I  have 
dreamed  that  it  is  wounded,  hunted,  set  upon  by  dogs,  but 
that  it  stands  at  bay,  and  will  not  yield  ;  no,  that  it  cannot  if  it 
would  ;  but  that  it  is  urged  on  to  hate  him,  rise  against  him, 
and  defy  him  !  " 

Her  clenched  hand  tightened  on  the  trembling  arm  she  had 
in  hers,  and  as  she  looked  down  on  the  alarmed  and  wonder- 
ing face,  her  own  subsided.  "Oh  Florence!"  she  said,  "I 
think  I  have  been  nearly  mad  to-night !  "  and  humbled  hei 
proud  head  upon  her  neck,  and.  wept  again. 


584  JwMBJiV  AiVl)  SOjV. 

"  Don't  leave  me !  be  near  me  !  I  ha\e  no  liope  but  in 
you  !  "     These  words  she  said  a  score  of  limes. 

Soon  she  grew  cahner,  and  was  full  of  pity  for  the  tears  of 
Florence,  and  for  her  waking  at  such  untimely  hours.  And  the 
day  now  dawning,  Edith  folded  her  in  her  arms  and  laid  her 
down  upon  her  bed,  and,  not  lying  down  herself,  sat  by  her, 
and  bade  her  try  to  sleep. 

"  Por  you  are  weary,  dearest,  and  unhappy,  and  should  rest." 

"  I  am  indeed  unhappy,  dear  Mama,  to-night,"  said  Florence. 
"  But  you  are  weary  and  unhappy,  too." 

"  Not  when  you  lie  asleep  so  near  me,  sweet." 

They  kissed  each  other,  and  Florence,  worn  out,  gradually 
fell  into  a  gentle  slumber ;  but  as  her  eyes  closed  on  the  face 
beside  her,  it  was  so  sad  to  think  upon  the  face  down  stairs, 
that  her  hand  drew  closer  to  Edith  for  some  comfort ;  yet,  even 
in  the  act,  it  faltered,  lest  it  should  be  deserting  him.  So,  in 
her  sleep,  she  tried  to  reconcile  the  two  together,  and  to  show 
them  that  she  loved  them  both,  but  could  not  do  it,  and  her 
waking  grief  was  part  of  her  dreams. 

Edith,  sitting  by,  looked  down  at  the  dark  eyelashes  lying 
wei;  on  the  flushed  cheeks,  and  looked  with  gentleness  and  pity, 
for  she  knew  the  truth.  But  no  sleep  liung  upon  her  own  eyes. 
As  the  day  came  on  she  still  sat  watching  and  waking,  with  the 
placid  hand  in  hers,  and  sometimes  whispered,  as  she  looked 
at  the  hushed  face,  "  Be  near  me,  Florence,  I  have  no  hope 
but  in  you  I  " 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

A    SEPARATION. 


With  the  day,  though  not  so  early  as  the  sun,  uprose  Miss 
Susan  Nipper.  There  was  a  heaviness  in  this  young  maiden's 
€.\ceedingly  sharp  black  eyes,  that  abated  somewhat  of  their 
sparkling,  and  suggested — which  was  not  their  usual  character 
— the  possibility  of  their  being  sometimes  shut.  There  was 
likewise  a  swollen  look  about  them,  as  if  they  had  been  crying 
over-night.  But  the  Nipper,  so  far  from  being  cast  down,  was 
singularly  brisk  and  bold,  and  all  her  energies  appeared  to  be 


A  SEPARA  TION.  5SJ 

braced  up  for  some  great  feat.  This  was  noticeable  even  in 
her  dress,  which  was  much  more  tiglit  and  trim  than  usual ;  and 
hi  occasional  twitches  of  her  head  as  she  went  about  the  house, 
which  were  mightily  expressive  of  determination. 

In  a  word,  she  had  formed  a  determination,  and  an  aspiring 
one  :  it  being  nothing  less  than  this — to  penetrate  to  Mr.  Dom- 
bey's  presence,  and  have  speech  of  that  gentleman  aJone.  "  I 
have  often  said  I  would,"  she  remarked,  in  a  threatening 
manner  to  herself,  that  morning,  with  many  twitches  of  her 
head,  "  and  now  I  will  !^' 

Spurring  herself  on  to  the  accomplishment  of  this  desperate 
design,  with  a  sharpness  that  was  peculiar  to  herself,  Susan 
Nipper  haunted  the  hall  and  staircase  during  the  whole  fore- 
noon, without  finding  a  favorable  opportunity  for  the  assault. 
Not  at  all  baffled  by  this  discomfiture,  which  indeed  had  a 
stimulating  effect,  and  put  her  on  her  mettle,  she  diminished 
nothing  of  her  vigilance  ;  and  at  last  discovered,  towards  even- 
ing, that  her  sworn  foe  Mrs.  Pipchin,  under  pretence  of  having 
sat  up  all  night,  was  dozing  in  her  own  room,  and  that  Mr. 
Dombey  was  lying  on  his  sofa,  unattended. 

With  a  twitch — not  of  her  head  merely,  this  time,  but  of  her 
whole  self — the  Nipper  went  on  tiptoe  to  Mr.  Dombey's  door, 
and  knocked.  "  Come  in  ! "  said  Mr.  Dombey.  Susan  en- 
couraged herself  with  a  final  twitch,  and  went  in. 

Mr.  Dombey,  who  was  eyeing  the  fire,  gave  an  amazed  look 
at  his  visitor,  and  raised  himself  a  little  on  his  arm.  The 
Nipper  dropped  a  curtsey. 

"  What  do  you  want  ?  "  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  If  you  please,  Sir,  I  wish  to  speak  to  you,"  said  Susan. 

Mr.  Dombey  moved  his  lips  as  if  he  were  repeating  the 
words,  but  he  seemed  so  lost  in  astonishment  at  the  pre- 
sumption of  the  young  woman  as  to  be  incapable  of  giving  them 
utterance. 

"  I  have  been  in  your  service,  Sir,"  said  Susan  Nipper,  with 
her  usual  rapidity,  "  now  twelve  year  a  waiting  on  Miss  Floy 
my  own  young  lady  who  couldn't  speak  plain  when  I  first  come 
here  and  I  was  old  in  this  house  when  Mrs.  Richards  was  new, 
I  may  not  be  Meethosalem,  but  I  am  not  a  child  in  arms." 

Mr.  Dombey,  raised  upon  his  arm  and  looking  at  her, 
offered  no  comment  on  this  preparatory  statement  of  facts. 

"  There  never  was  a  dearer  or  a  blesseder  young  lady  than 
is  my  young  lady,  Sir,"  said  Susan,  "and  I  ought  to  know  a 
great  deal  better  than  some  for  I  have  seen  her  in  her  grief  and 
I  have  seen  her  in  her  joy  (there's  not  been  much  of  it)  and  J 


j86  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

have  seen  her  with  her  brother  and  I  have  seen  her  in  hef 
loneUness  and  some  have  never  seen  her,  and  1  say  to  some 
and  all — I  do  !  "  and  here  the  black-eyed  shook  her  head,  and 
slightly  stamped  her  foot ;  "  that  she's  the  blessedest  and 
dearest  angel  is  Miss  Floy  that  ever  drew  the  breath  of  life,  the 
more  that  I  was  torn  to  pieces  Sir  the  more  I'd  say  it  though  I 
may  not  be  a  Fox's  Martyr." 

Mr.  Dombey  turned  yet  paler  than  his  fall  had  made  him, 
with  indignation  and  astonishment;  and  kept  his  eyes  upon  the 
speaker  as  if  he  accused  them,  and  his  ears  too,  of  playing  him 
false. 

"  No  one  could  be  anything  but  true  and  faithful  to  Miss 
Floy,  Sir,"  pursued  Susan, '"  and  I  take  no  merit  for  my  service 
of  twelve  year,  for  I  love  her — yes,  I  say  to  some  and  all  I  do  !  " 
— and  here  the  black-eyed  shook  her  head  again,  and  slightly 
stamped  her  foot  again,  and  checked  a  sob  ;  "  but  true  and 
faithful  ser\  ice  gives  me  right  to  speak  I  hope,  and  speak  I 
must  and  will  now,  right  or  wrong." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  woman  ?  "  said  Mr.  Dombey,  glaring 
at  her.     "  How  do  you  dare  .''  " 

"  What  I  mean.  Sir,  is  to  speak  respectful  and  without 
offence,  but  out,  and  how  I  dare  I  know  not  but  I  do ! "  said 
Susan.  "Oh!  you  don't  know  my  young  lady  Sir  you  don't 
indeed,  you'd  never  know  so  little  of  her,  if  you  did.' 

Mr.  Dombey,  in  a  fury,  put  his  hand  out  for  the  bell-rope  ; 
but  there  was  no  bell-rope  on  that  side  of  the  fire,  and  he  could 
not  rise  and  cross  to  the  other  without  assistance.  The  quick 
eye  of  the  Nipper  detected  his  helplessness  immediately,  and 
now,  as  she  afterwards  observed,  she  felt  she  had  got  him. 

"  Miss  Floy,"  said  Susan  Nipper,  "  is  the  most  devoted  and 
most  patient  and  most  dutiful  and  beautiful  of  daughters,  there 
an't  no  gentleman,  no  Sir,  though  as  great  and  rich  as  all  the 
greatest  and  richest  of  England  put  together,  but  might  be 
proud  of  her  and  would  and  ought.  If  he  knew  her  value  right, 
he'd  rather  lose  his  greatness  and  his  fortune  piece  by  piece 
and  beg  his  way  in  rags  from  door  to  door,  I  say  to  some  and 
all,  he  would!"  cried  Susan  Nipper,  bursting  into  tears,  "'than 
bring  the  sorrow  on  her  tender  heart  that  I  have  seen  it  suffer 
in  this  house  !  " 

"  Woman,"  cried  Mr.  Dombey,  "  leave  the  room." 
"  Begging  your  pardon,  not  even  if  I  am  to  leave  the  situa- 
tion, Sir,"  replied  tiie  steadfast  Nipper,  "in  which  I  have  been 
so  many  years  and  seen  so  much — although  I  hope  you'd  never 
have  the  heart  to  send  me  from  Miss  Floy  for  such  a  cause— 


A  SEPARATION  587 

will  I  go  now  till  I  have  said  the  rest,  I  may  not  be  a  Indian 
widow  Sir  and  I  am  not  and  I  would  not  so  become  but  if  I 
once  made  up  my  mind  to  burn  myself  alive,  I'd  do  it !  And 
I've  made  up  my  mind  to  go  on." 

Which  was  rendered  no  less  ckar  by  the  expression  of 
Susan  Nipper's  countenance,  than  by  her  words. 

"  There  an't  a  person  in  your  service,  Sir,"  pursued  the 
black-eyed,  "  that  has  always  stood  more  in  awe  of  you  than 
me  and  you  may  think  how  true  it  is  when  I  make  so  bold  as 
say  that  I  have  hundreds  and  hundreds  of  times  thought  of 
speaking  to  you  and  never  been  able  to  make  my  mind  up  to  it 
till  last  night,  but  last  night  decided  of  me." 

Mr.  Dombey,  in  a  paroxysm  of  rage,  made  another  grasp 
at  the  bell-rope  that  was  not  there,  and,  in  its  absence,  pulled 
his  hair  rather  than  nothing. 

"I  have  seen,"  said  Susan  Nipper,  "Miss  Floy  strive  and 
strive  when  nothing  but  a  child  so  sweet  and  patient  that  the 
best  of  women  might  have  copied  from  her,  I've  seen  her  sit- 
ting nights  together  half  the  night  through  to  help  her  delicate 
brother  with  his  learning,  I've  seen  her  helping  him  and  watch- 
ing him  at  other  times — some  well  know  when — I've  seen  her, 
with  no  encouragement  and  no  help,  grow  up  to  be  a  lady, 
thank  God  !  that  is  the  grace  and  pride  of  every  company  she 
goes  in,  and  I've  always  seen  her  cruelly  neglected  and  keenly 
feeling  of  it — I  say  to  some  and  all,  I  have  ! — and  never  said 
one  word,  but  ordering  one's  self  lowly  and  reverently  towards 
one's  betters,  is  not  to  be  a  worshipper  of  graven  images,  and 
I  will  and  must  speak  !  " 

"  Is  there  anybody  there  !  "  cried  Mr.  Dombey,  calling  out. 
"  Where  are  the  men  ?  where  are  the  women  ?  Is  there  no 
one  there  ?  " 

"  I  left  my  dear  young  lady  out  of  bed  late  last  night !  " 
said  Susan,  nothing  checked,  "  and  I  knew  why,  for  you  was  ill 
Sir  and  she  didn't  know  how  ill  and  that  was  enough  to  make 
her  wretched  as  I  saw  it  did.  I  may  not  be  a  Peacock  ;  but  i 
have  my  eyes — and  I  sat  up  a  little  in  my  own  room  thinking 
she  might  be  lonesome  and  might  want  me,  and  I  saw  her  steal 
down  stairs  and  come  to  this  door  as  if  it  was  a  guilty  thing 
to  look  at  her  own  Pa,  and  then  steal  back  again  and  go  into 
them  lonely  drawing-rooms,  a  crying  so,  that  I  could  hardly 
bear  to  hear  it.  I  can  not  bear  to  hear  it,"  said  Susan  Nipper, 
wiping  her  black  eyes,  and  fixing  them  undauntedly  on  Mr. 
Dombey's  infuriated  face,  "  It's  not  the  f!rst  time  I  have  heard 
't,  not  by  many  and  many  a  time  you   don't   know  your  0¥fa 


5S8  DOMBE  Y  A.VD  SOJ\r. 

daughter,  Sir,  you  don't  know  what  you're  doing,  Sir,  I  say  ta 
some  and  all,"  cried  Susan  Nipper,  in  a  final  burst,  "  that  it's  a 
sinful  shame !  " 

"  Why,  hoity  toity !  "  cried  the  voice  of  Mrs,  Tipchin,  as 
the  black  bombazine  garments  of  that  fair  Peruvian  Miner 
swept  into  the  room.     "  What's  this,  indeed  !  " 

Susan  favored  Mrs.  Pipchin  with  a  look  she  had  invented 
expressly  for  her  when  they  first  became  acquainted,  and  re* 
signed  the  reply  to  Mr.  Dombey. 

"What's  this?"  repeated  Mr.  Dombey,  almost  foaming. 
"  What's  this,  Madam  ?  You  who  are  at  the  head  of  this 
household,  and  bound  to  keep  it  in  order,  have  reason  to  in- 
quire.    Do  you  know  this  woman  ?  " 

"  I  know  very  little  good  of  her,  Sir,"  croaked  Mrs.  Pip- 
chin.  "  How  dare  you  come  here,  you  hussy  .-'  Go  along  with 
you ! " 

But  the  inflexible  Nipper,  merely  honoring  Mrs.  Pipchin 
with  another  look,  remained. 

"  Do  you  call  it  managing  this  establishment,  Madam,"  said 
Mr.  Dombey,  "  to  leave  a  person  like  this  at  liberty  to  come 
and  talk  to  7ne  !  A  gentleman — in  his  own  house — in  his  own 
room — assailed  with  the  impertinences  of  women  servants  !  " 

"Well,  Sir,"  returned  Mrs.  Pipchin,  with  vengeance  in  lier 
hard  gray  eye,  "  I  exceedingly  deplore  it ;  nothing  can  be 
more  irregular ;  nothing  can  be  more  out  of  all  bounds  and 
reason  ;  but  I  regret  to  say  Sir,  that  this  young  woman  is  quite 
beyond  control.  She  has  been  spoiled  by  Miss  Dombey,  and 
is  amenable  to  nobody.  You  know  you're  not,"  said  Mrs. 
Pipchin,  sharply,  and  shaking  lier  head  at  Susan  Nipper.  "  For 
shame,  you  hussy  !     Go  along  with  you  !  " 

"  If  you  find  people  in  my  service  who  are  not  to  be  con- 
trolled, Mrs.  Pipchin,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  turning  back  towards 
the  fire,  "  you  know  what  to  do  with  them,  I  presume.  You 
know  what  you  are  here  for  ?     Take  her  away  !  " 

"Sir,  I  know  what  to  do,"  retorted  Mrs.  Pipchin,  "and  of 
course  I  shall  do  it.  Susan  Nipper,"  snapping  her  up  par- 
ticularly short,  "  a  month's  warning  from  this  hour." 

"  Oh  indeed  !  "  cried  Susan,  loftily. 

"  Yes,"  returned  Mrs.  Pipchin,  "and  don't  smile  at  me, 
you  minx,  or  I'll  know  the  reason  why  !  Go  along  with  you 
this  minute  !  " 

"  I  intend  to  go  this  minute,  you  may  rely  upon  it,"  said 
the  voluble  Nipper.  "  I  have  been  in  this  house  waiting  on 
my  young  lady  a  dozen  year  and  I  won't  stop  in  it  one  houi 


A  SKPARATIOiV.  589 

Under  notice  from  a  person  owning  to  the  name  of  Pipcliin, 
trust  me,  Mrs.  P." 

"  A  good  riddance  to  bad  rubbish  ! "  said  that  wrathful  old 
lady.     "  Get  along  with  you,  or  I'll  have  you  carried  out !  " 

"  My  comfort  is,"  said  Susan,  looking  back  at  Mr.  Dom- 
bey,  "  that  I  have  told  a  piece  of  truth  this  day  which  ought 
to  have  been  told  long  before  and  can't  be  told  too  often  or 
too  plain,  and  that  no  amount  of  Pipchinses— I  hope  the  num- 
ber of  'em  mayn't  be  great "  (here  Mrs.  Pipchin  uttered  a  very 
sharp  "  Go  along  with  you !  "  and  Miss  Nipper  repeated  the 
look)  "  can  unsay  what  1  have  said,  though  they  gave  a  whole 
year  full  of  warnings  beginning  at  ten  o'clock  in  the  forenoon 
and  never  leaving  off  till  twelve  at  night  and  died  of  the  ex- 
haustion which  would  be  a  Jubilee  !  " 

With  these  words,  Miss  Nipper  preceded  her  foe  out  of  the 
room ;  and  walking  up  stairs  to  her  own  apartment  in  great 
state,  to  the  choking  exasperation  of  the  ireful  Pipchin,  sat 
down  among  her  boxes  and  began  to  cry. 

From  this  soft  mood  she  was  soon  aroused,  with  a  very 
wholesome  and  refreshing  effect,  by  the  voice  of  Mrs.  Pipchin 
outside  the  door. 

"  Does  that  bold-faced  slut,"  said  the  fell  Pipchin,  "  intend 
to  take  her  warning,  or  does  she  not  ?  " 

Miss  Nipper  replied  from  within  that  the  person  described 
did  not  inhabit  that  part  of  the  house,  but  that  her  name  was 
Pipchin,  and  she  was  to  be  found  in  the  housekeeper's  room. 

"  You  saucy  baggage  !  "  retorted  Mrs.  Pipchin,  rattling  at 
the  handle  of  the  door.  "  Go  along  with  you  this  minute. 
Pack  up  your  things  directly  !  How  dare  you  talk  in  this  way 
to  a  gentlewoman  who  has  seen  better  days  .''  " 

To  which  Miss  Nipper  rejoined  from  her  castle,  that  she 
pitied  the  better  days  that  had  seen  Mrs.  Pipchin  ;  and  that 
for  her  part  she  considered  the  worst  days  in  the  years  to  be 
about  that  lady's  mark,  except  that  they  were  much  too  good 
for  her. 

"  But  you  needn't  trouble  yourself  to  make  a  noise  at  my 
door,"  said  Susan  Nipper,  "  nor  to  contaminate  the  key-hole 
with  your  eye,  I'm  packing  up  and  going  you  may  take  your 
affidavit." 

The  Dowager  expressed  her  lively  satisfaction  at  this  in- 
telligence, and  with  some  general  opinions  upon  young  hussies 
as  a  race,  and  especially  upon  their  demerits  after  being 
spoiled  by  Miss  Dombey,  withdrew  to  prepare  the  Nipper's 
wages.     Susan  then  bestirred  herself  to  get  her  trunks  in  or- 


590 


DOMBKV  AXD  St  AT. 


der,  tha^  she  miglit  take  an  immediate  and  dignified  departure 
sobbing  heartily  all  the  time,  as  she  thought  of  Florence. 

The  object  of  her  regret  was  not  long  in  coming  to  her,  foi 
the  news  soon  spread  over  the  house  that  Susan  Nipper  had 
had  a  disturbance  with  Mrs.  Pipchin,  and  that  they  had  both 
appealed  to  Mr.  Dombey,  and  that  there  had  been  an  unpre 
cedented  piece  of  work  in  Mr  Dombey's  room,  and  that  Susan 
was  going.  The  latter  part  of  this  confused  rumor,  Florence 
found  to  be  so  correct,  that  Susan  had  locked  the  last  trunk 
and  was  sitting  upon  it  with  her  bonnet  on,  when  she  came 
into  her  room. 

"  Susan  !  "  cried  Florence.     "  Going  to  leave  me  !     You  1 " 

"Oh  for  goodness  gracious  sake.  Miss  Floy,"  said  Susan 
sobbing,  "don't  speak  a  word  to  me  or  I  shall  demean  myself 
before  them  Pi-i-ipchinses,  and  I  wouldn't  have  'em  see  me 
cry  Miss  Floy  for  worlds  !  " 

"  Susan  !  "  said  Florence.  "  My  dear  girl,  my  old  friend  ! 
What  shall  I  do  without  you  !     Can  you  bear  to  go  av»'ay  so  ?  " 

"  No-n-o-o,  my  darling  dear  Miss  Floy,  I  can't  indeed," 
sobbed  Susan.  "  But  it  can't  be  helped,  I've  done  my  duty 
Miss,  I  have  indeed.  It's  no  fault  of  mine.  I  am  quite  re- 
signed. I  couldn't  stay  my  month  or  I  could  never  leave  you 
then  my  darling  and  I  must  at  last  as  well  as  at  first,  don't  speak 
to  me  Miss  Floy,  for  though  I'm  pretty  firm  I'm  not  a  marble 
doorpost,  my  own  dear." 

"  What  is  it  ?  Why  is  it  ?  "  said  Florence.  "  Won't  you 
tell  me  ? "     For  Susan  was  shaking  her  head. 

"No-n-no,  my  darling,"  returned  Susan.  "Don't  ask  me, 
for  I  mustn't,  and  whatever  you  do  don't  put  in  a  word  for  me 
to  stop,  for  it  couldn't  be  and  you'd  only  wrong  yourself,  and  so 
God  bless  you  my  own  precious  and  forgive  me  any  harm  I 
have  done,  or  any  temper  I  have  showed  in  all  these  many 
years  I  " 

With  which  entreaty,  very  heartily  delivered,  Susan  hugged 
her  mistress  in  her  arms. 

"  My  darling  there's  a  many  that  may  come  to  serve  you  and 
be  glad  to  serve  you  and  who'll  serve  you  well  and  true,"  said 
Susan,  "  but  there  can't  be  one  who'll  serve  vou  so  affectionate 
as  me  or  love  you  half  as  dearly,  that's  my  comfort.  Go-ood-by 
sweet  Miss  Floy  !  " 

"  Where  will  you  go,  Susan  ?"  asked  her  weeping  mistress. 

"  I've  got  a  brother  down  in  the  country  Miss — a  farmer  in 
Essex,"  said  the  heart-broken  Nipper,  "  that  keeps  ever  so  many 
co-o-ows  and  pigs  and  I  shall  go  down  there  by  the  coad:  and 


A  SKPAkATlOlV. 


w 


!4to-0p  wUh  him,  and  don't  mind  me,  for  r\-e  got  money  in  the 
Savings'  Banks  my  dear,  and  needn't  take  anotlier  service  just 
yet,  which  I  couldn't,  couldn't,  couldn't  do  my  heart's  own 
mistress  !  "  Susan  finished  with  a  burst  of  sorrow,  which  was 
opportunely  broken  by  the  voice  of  Mrs.  Pipchin  talking  down 
stairs  ;  on  hearing  which,  she  dried  her  red  and  swollen  eyes, 
and  made  a  melancholy  feint  of  calling  jauntily  to  Mr.  Tow- 
linson  to  fetch  a  cab  and  carry  down  her  boxes. 

Florence,  pale  and  hurried  and  distressed,  but  withheld 
/rom  useless  interference  even  here,  by  her  dread  of  causing 
any  new  division  between  her  father  and  his  wife  (whose  stern, 
indignant  face  had  been  a  warning  to  her  a  few  moments 
since),  and  by  her  apprehension  of  being  in  some  way  uncon- 
sciously connected  already  with  the  dismissal  of  her  old  ser- 
vant and  friend,  followed,  weeping,  down  stairs  to  Edith's 
dressing-room,  whither  Susan  betook  herself  to  make  her  part- 
ing curtsey. 

"  Now,  here's  the  cab,  and  here's  the  boxes,  get  along  with 
you,  do  !  "  said  Mrs.  Pipchin,  presenting  herself  at  the  same 
moment.  "  I  beg  your  pardon.  Ma'am,  but  Mr.  Dombey's 
orders  are  imperative."' 

Edith  sitting  under  the  hands  of  her  maid — she  was  going 
out  to  dinner — preserved  her  haughty  face,  and  took  not  the 
least  notice. 

"There's  your  money,"  said  Mrs.  Pipchin,  who  in  pur- 
suance of  her  system,  and  in  recollection  of  the  mines,  was 
accustomed  to  rout  the  servants  about  as  she  had  routed  her 
young  Brighton  boarders  ;  to  the  everlasting  acidulation  of 
Master  Bitherstone,"  and  the  sooner  this  house  sees  your  baclt 
the  better." 

Susan  had  no  spirits  even  for  the  look  that  belonged  to 
Mrs,  Pipchin  by  right ;  so  she  dropped  her  curtsey  to  Mrs. 
Dombey  (Who  inclined  her  head  without  one  word,  and  whose 
eye  avoided  every  one  but  Florence),  and  gave  one  last  part- 
ing hug  to  her  young  Mistress,  and  received  her  parting  em- 
brace in  return.  Poor  Susan's  face  at  this  crisis,  in  the  in- 
tensity of  her  feelings  and  the  determined  suffocation  of  her 
sobs,  lest  one  should  become  audible  and  be  a  triumph  to  Mrs. 
Pipchin,  presented  a  series  of  the  most  extraordinary  physi- 
ognomical phenomena  ever  witnessed. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Miss,  I'm  sure,"  said  Towlinson,  out- 
side the  door  with  the  boxes,  addressing  Florence,  "  but  Mr. 
Toots  is  in  the  drawing-room,  and  sends  his  compliments,  and 
begs  to  know  how  Diogenes  and  Master  is.' 


i^i 


DOMBHV  AjVD  SoX. 


Quick  as  thought,  Florence  glided  out  and  hastened  doW;. 
stairs,  where  Mr.  Toots,  in  the  most  splendid  vestments,  wa^ 
breathing  very  hard  with  doubt  and  agitation  on  the  subject  o 
her  coming. 

"Oh,  how  de  do,  Miss  Dombey,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "Got 
bless  my  soul !  " 

This  last  ejaculation  was  occasioned  by  Mr.  Toots's  deei 
concern  at  the  distress  he  saw  in  Florence's  face  ;  which  cause 
him  to  stop  short  in  a  fit  of  chuckks,  and  become  an  image  o, 
despair. 

"  Dear  Mr.  Toots,"  said  Florence,  "  you  are  so  friendly  tc 
me,  and  so  honest,  that  I  am  sure  1  may  ask  a  favor  of 
you." 

"  Miss  Dombey,"  returned  Mr.  Toots,  "  if  you'll  only  name 
one,  you'll — you'll  give  me  an  appetite.  To  which,"  said  Mr. 
Toots,  with  some  sentiment,  "  I  have  long  been  a  stranger," 

"  Susan,  who  is  an  old  friend  of  mine,  the  oldest  friend  I 
have,"  said  Florence,  "  is  about  to  leave  here  suddenly,  and 
quite  alone,  poor  girl.  She  is  going  home,  a  little  way  into  the 
country.  Might  I  ask  you  to  take  care  of  her  until  she  is  in 
the  coach  "i  " 

"  Miss  Dombey,"  returned  Mr.  Toots,  "  you  really  do  me 
an  honor  and  a  kindness.  This  proof  of  your  confidence, 
after  the  manner  in  which  I  was  Beast  enough  to  conduct  my- 
self at  Brighton — " 

"  Yes,"  said  Florence,  hurriedly — "no — don't  think  of  that. 
Then  would  you  have  the  kindness  to — to  go  ?  and  to  be  ready 
to  meet  her  when  she  comes  out  ?  Thank  you  a  thousand 
times  !  You  ease  my  mind  so  much.  She  doesn't  seem  so 
desolate.  You  cannot  think  how  grateful  I  feel  to  you,  or  what 
a  good  friend  I  am  sure  you  are  ! "  And  Florence  in  her  ear- 
nestness thanked  him  again  and  again  ;  and  Mr.  Toots,  in  ///> 
earnestness,  hurried  away — but  backwards,  that  he  might  lose 
no  glimpse  of  her.  ' 

Florence  had  not  the  courage  to  go  out,  when  she  saw  poor 
Susan  in  the  hall,  with  Mrs.  Pipchin  driving  her  forth,  and 
Diogenes  jumping  about  her,  and  terrifying  Mrs.  I'ipchin  to 
the  last  degree  by  making  snaps  at  her  bombazine  skirts,  and 
howling  with  anguish  at  the  sound  of  her  voice — for  the  good 
duenna  was  the  dearest  and  most  cherished  aversion  of  his 
breast.  But  he  saw  Susan  shake  hands  with  the  servants  all 
round,  and  turn  once  to  look  at  her  old  home  :  and  she  saw 
"  Diogenes  bound  out  after  the  cab,  and  want  to  follow  it,  and 
testify  an  impossibility  of  conviction  tliat  he  had  no  longer  any 


A  SEPARATION 


593 


property  in  the  fare ;  and  the  door  was  shut,  ant^  the  hurry 
over,  and  her  tears  flowed  fast  for  the  loss  of  an  old  friend, 
whom  no  one  could  replace.     No  one.     No  one. 

Mr.  Toots,  like  the  leal  and  trusty  soul  he  was,  stopped  the 
cabriolet  in  a  twinkling,  and  told  Susan  Nipper  of  his  commis- 
sion, at  which  she  cried  more  than  before. 

•'Upon  my  soul  and  body!"  said  Mr.  Toots,  taking  his 
seat  beside  her,  "  I  feel  for  you.  Upon  my  word  and  honor  I 
think  you  can  hardly  know  your  own  feelings  better  than  I  im- 
agine them.  I  can  conceive  nothing  more  dreadful  than  to 
have  to  leave  Miss  Dombey." 

Susan  abandoned  herself  to  her  grief  now,  and  it  really  was 
touching  to  see  her. 

"  I  say,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  now,  don't  I  at  least  I  mean  now 
do,  you  know  !  " 

"  Do  what,  Mr.  Toots  ?  "  cried  Susan, 

"  Why,  come  home  to  my  place,  and  have  some  dinner  be- 
fore you  start,"  said  Mr.  Toots.  "  My  cook's  a  most  respect 
able  woman — one  of  the  most  motherly  people  I  ever  saw — 
and  she'll  be  delighted  to  make  you  comfortable.  Her  son," 
said  Mr.  Toots,  as  an  additional  recommendation,  "  was  ed- 
ucated in  the  Blue-coat  School,  and  blown  up  in  a  powder- 
mill." 

Susan  accepting  this  kind  offer,  Mr.  Toots  conducted  her 
to  his  dwelling,  where  they  were  received  by  the  Matron  in 
question  who  fully  justified  his  character  of  her,  and  by  the 
Chicken,  who  at  first  supposed,  on  seeing  a  lady  in  the  vehicle, 
that  Mr.  Dombey  had  been  doubled  up,  agreeably  to  his  old 
recommendation,  and  Miss  Dombey  abducted.  This  gentle- 
man awakened  in  Miss  Nipper  some  considerable  astonish- 
ment ;  for,  having  been  defeated  by  the  Larkey  Boy,  his  visage 
was  in  a  state  of  such  great  dilapidation,  as  to  be  hardly  pre- 
sentable in  society  with  comfort  to  the  beholders.  The  Chicken 
himself  attributed  this  punishment  to  his  having  had  the  mis- 
fortune to  get  into  Chancery  early  in  the  proceedings,  when  he 
was  severely  fibbed  by  the  Larkey  one,  and  heavily  grassed. 
But  it  appeared  from  the  published  records  of  that  great  con- 
test that  the  Larkey  Boy  had  had  it  all  his  own  way  from  the 
beginning,  and  that  the  Chicken  had  been  tapped,  and  bunged, 
and  had  received  pepper,  and  had  been  made  groggy,  and  had 
come  up  piping,  and  had  endured  a  complication  of  similar 
strange  inconveniences,  until  he  had  been  gone  into  and  fin- 
ished. 

Aiter  a  good  repast,  and  much  hospitality,  Susan  set  out 


4i|4  DOMBE  Y  AND  SO.V. 

for  the  coach-oftice  in  another  cabriolet,  with  Mr.  Toots  inside, 
as  before,  and  tlie  Chicken  on  tlie  box,  who,  whatever  distinc 
tion  he  conferred  on  the  little  party  by  the  moral  weight  and 
heroism  of  his  character,  was  scarcely  ornamental  to  it,  physi- 
cally speaking,  on  account  of  his  plasters ;  which  were  numer- 
ous. But  the  Chicken  had  registered  a  vow,  in  secret,  that  he 
would  never  leave  Mr.  Toots  (who  was  secretly  pining  to  get 
rid  of  him),  for  any  less  consideration  than  the  goodwill  and 
fixtures  of  a  public-house ;  and  being  ambitious  to  go  into  that 
line,  and  drink  himself  to  death  as  soon  as  possible,  he  felt  it 
his  cue  to  make  his  company  unacceptable. 

The  night-coach  by  which  Susan  was  to  go,  was  on  the 
point  of  departure.  Mr.  Toots  having  put  her  inside,  lingered 
by  the  window,  irresolutely,  until  the  driver  was  about  to 
mount ;  when,  standing  on  the  step,  and  putting  in  a  face  that 
by  the  light  of  the  lamp  was  anxious  and  confused,  he  said 
abruptly : 

"  I  say,  Susan  !     Miss  Dombey,  you  know — " 

"  Yes,  Sir." 

"  Do  you  think  she  could — you  know — eh  ?  " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Toots,"  said  Susan,  "but  I  don't 
hear  you." 

"  Do  you  think  she  could  be  brought,  you  know — not  ex- 
actly at  once,  but  in  time — in  a  long  time — to — to  love  me, 
you  know!     There  !  "  said  poor  Mr.  Toots. 

"  Oh  dear  no  :  "  returned  Susan,  shaking  her  head.  "  I 
should  say,  never.     Ne — ver  !  " 

"Thank'ee!"  said  Mr.  Toots.  "It's  of  no  consequence. 
Good-night.     It's  of  no  consequence,  thank'ee  I  " 


CHAPTER  XLV. 

THE     TRUSTY     AGENT, 


Edith  went  out  alone  that  day,  and  returned  home  early. 
It  was  but  a  few  minutes  after  ten  o'clock,  when  her  carriage 
rolled  along  the  street  in  which  she  lived. 

There  was  the  same  enforced  composure  on  her  face,  that 
there  had  been  when  she  was  dressing  ;  and  the  wreath  upoa 
her  head  encircled  the  same  cold  and  steady  brow.     But  it 


THE  TRUSTY  AGENT.  tft* 

would  ha\'e  been  better  to  have  seen  its  leaves  and  flowers  reft 
into  fragments  by  her  passionate  hand,  or  rendered  shapeless 
by  the  fitful  searches  of  a  throbbing  and  bewildered  brain  for 
any  resting-place,  than  adorning  such  tranquillity.  So  obdu- 
rate, so  unapproachable,  so  unrelenting,  one  svould  have  thought 
that  nothing  could  soften  such  a  woman's  nature,  and  that 
everything  in  life  had  hardened  it. 

Arrived  at  her  own  doer,  she  was  alighting,  when  some  one 
coming  quietly  from  the  hall,  and  standing  bareheaded,  offered 
her  his  arm.  The  servant  being  thrust  aside,  she  had  no  choice 
but  to  touch  it ;  and  she  then  knew  whose  arm  it  was. 

"  How  is  your  patient.  Sir?  "  she  said,  with  a  curled  lip. 

"  He  is  better,"  returned  Carker.  "He  is  doing  very  well. 
I  have  left  him  for  the  night." 

She  bent  her  head,  and  was  passing  up  the  staircase,  when 
he  followed  and  said,  speaking  at  the  bottom  : 

"  Madam  !     May  I  beg  the  favor  of  a  minute's  audience  ? " 

She  stopped  and  turned  her  eyes  back.  "  It  is  an  unrea- 
sonable time,  Sir,  and  I  am  fatigued.  Is  your  business  ur- 
gent ? " 

"It  is  very  urgent,"  returned  Carker,  "As  I  am  so  fortu- 
nate as  to  have  met  you,  let  me  press  my  petition." 

She  looked  down  for  a  moment  at  his  glistening  mouth  ; 
and  he  looked  up  at  her,  standing  above  him  in  her  stately 
dress,  and  thought,  again,  how  beautiful  she  was. 

"Where  is  Miss  Dombey  ? "  she  asked  the  servant,  aloud. 

"  In  the  morning  room.  Ma'am." 

"  Show  the  way  there  ! "  Turning  her  eyes  again  on  the 
attentive  gentleman  at  the  bottom  of  the  stairs,  and  informing 
him  with  a  slight  motion  of  her  head,  that  he  was  at  liberty  to 
follow,  she  passed  on. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  !  Madam  !  Mrs.  Dombey  I  "  cried 
the  soft  and  nimble  Carker  at  her  side  in  a  moment.  "  May  I 
be  permitted  to  entreat  that  Miss  Dombey  is  not  present?" 

She  confronted  him,  with  a  quick  look,  but  with  the  same 
self-possession  and  steadiness. 

"  I  would  spare  Miss  Dombey,"  said  Carker,  in  a  low  voice, 
"  the  knowledge  of  what  I  have  to  say.  At  least,  Madam,  I 
would  leave  it  to  you  to  decide  whether  she  shall  know  of  it  or 
not.  I  owe  that  to  you.  It  is  my  bounden  duty  to  you.  After 
our  former  interview,  it  would  be  monstrous  in  me  if  I  did 
otherwise." 

She  slowly  withdrew  her  eyes  from  his  face,  and  turning  to 
the  servant,  said,  "  Some  other  room."     He  led  the  way  to   a 


5g6  DOMBEY  AXD  SOX. 

drawing-room,  which  he  speedily  lighted  up  and  then  left  thera 
Wliile  he  remained,  not  a  word  was  spoken.  Edith  enthroned 
herself  upon  a  couc!i  by  the  fire  ;  and  Mr.  Carker,  with  his  hat 
in  his  liand  and  his  eyes  bent  upon  the  carpet,  stood  before 
her,  at  some  little  distance. 

"  Before  I  hear  you,  Sir,"  said  Pxlith,  when  the  door  was 
closed,  "  I  wish  you  to  hear  me." 

"To  be  addressed  by  Mrs.  Dombey,"  he  returned,  "even 
in  accents  of  unmerited  reproach,  is  an  honor  I  so  greatly 
esteem,  that  although  I  were  not  her  servant  in  all  things,  I 
should  defer  to  such  a  wish,  most  readily." 

"  If  you  are  charged  by  the  man  whom  you  have  just  now 
left,  Sir;"  Mr.  Carker  raised  his  eyes,  as  if  he  were  going  to 
counterfeit  surprise,  but  she  met  them,  and  stopped  him,  if  such 
were  his  intention  ;  "  with  any  message  to  me,  do  not  attempt 
to  deliver  it,  for  I  will  not  receive  it.  I  need  scarcely  ask  you 
if  you  are  come  on  such  an  errand.  I  have  expected  you  some 
time." 

"It  is  my  misfortune,"  he  replied,  "to  be  here,  wholly 
against  my  will,  for  such  a  purpose.  Allow  me  to  say  that  I  am 
here  for  two  purposes.     That  is  one." 

"  That  one,  Sir,"  she  returned,  "  is  ended.  Or,  if  you 
return  to  it " 

"  Can  Mrs.  Dombey  believe,"  said  Carker,  coming  nearer, 
"  that  I  would  return  to  it  in  the  face  of  her  prohibition  ?  Is  it 
possible  that  Mrs.  Dombey,  having  no  regard  to  my  unfortunate 
position,  is  so  determined  to  consider  me  inseparable  from  my 
instructor  as  to  do  me  great  and  wilful  injustice?" 

"  Sir,"  returned  Edith,  bending  her  dark  gaze  full  upon 
him,  and  speaking  with  a  rising  passion  that  inflated  her  proud 
nostril  and  her  swelling  neck,  and  stirred  the  delicate  white 
down  upon  a  robe  she  wore,  thrown  loosely  over  shoulders  (iiat 
could  bear  its  snowy  neighborhood.  "  Why  do  you  present 
yourself  to  me,  as  you  ha\e  done,  and  speak  to  me  of  love  and 
duty  to  my  husband,  and  pretend  to  think  that  I  am  happily 
married,  and  that  I  honor  him  .''  How^  dare  you  venture  so  to 
atTrontmc,  when  you  know — /do  not  know  better,  Sir  :  I  have 
seen  it  in  your  every  glance,  and  heard  it  in  your  every  word — • 
that  in  place  of  affection  between  us  there  is  aversion  and  con- 
tempt, and  that  I  despise  him  hardly  less  than  I  despise  mvself 
for  being  his  !  Injustice  !  If  I  had  done  justice  to  the  torment 
you  have  made  me  feel,  and  to  my  sense  of  the  insult  you  have 
put  upon  me,  I  should  have  slain  you  !  " 

Shr  h^d  asked  liim  why  lie  did  this.     Had  she  not  been 


TtfE  TRlrSTV  ACEMT. 


S9J 


btincle<.'  ';y  her  pride  and  wrath,  and  self-humiliation, — which 
she  was.  fiercely  as  she  bent  her  gaze  upon  him, — she  would 
have  seen  the  answer  in  his  face.  To  bring  her  to  this  declara- 
tion. 

She  saw  it  not,  and  cared  not  whether  it  was  there  or  no. 
She  saw  only  the  indignities  and  struggles  she  had  undergone, 
and  had  to  undergo,  and  was  writhing  under  then.  As  she  set 
looking  fixedly  at  them,  rather  than  at  him,  she  plucked  the 
feathers  from  a  pinion  of  some  rare  and  beautiful  bird,  which 
hung  from  her  wrist  by  a  golden  thread,  to  serve  her  as  a  fan, 
and  rained  them  on  the  ground. 

He  did  not  shrink  beneath  her  gaze,  but  stood,  until  such 
outward  signs  of  her  anger  as  had  escaped  her  control  subsided, 
with  the  air  of  a  man  who  had  his  sufficient  reply  in  reserve 
and  would  presently  deliver  it.  And  he  then  spoke,  looking 
straight  into  her  kindling  eyes. 

"  Madam,"  he  said,  "  I  know,  and  knew  before  to-day,  that 
I  have  found  no  favor  with  you ;  and  I  knew  why.  Yes.  I 
knew  why.  You  have  spoken  so  openly  to  me  j  1  am  so 
relieved  by  the  possession  of  your  confidence " 

"  Confidence  !  "  she  repeated,  with  disdain. 

He  passed  it  over. 

" — That  I  will  make  no  pretence  of  concealment.  I  did  see 
from  the  first,  that  there  was  no  affection  on  your  part  for  Mr. 
Dombey — how  could  it  possibly  exist  between  such  different 
subjects  !  And  I  have  seen,  since,  that  stronger  feelings  than 
indifference  have  been  engendered  in  your  breast — how  could 
that  possibly  be  otherwise,  either,  circumstanced  as  you  have 
been  t  But  was  it  for  me  to  presume  to  avow  this  knowledge 
to  you  in  so  many  words  ?  " 

"  Was  it  for  you,  Sir,"  she  replied,  "  to  feign  that  other 
belief,  and  audaciously  to  thrust  it  on  me  day  by  day  }  " 

"  Madam,  it  was,"  he  eagerly  retorted.  "  If  I  had  done  less, 
if  I  had  done  anything  but  that,  I  should  not  be  speaking  to 
you  thus  ;  and  1  foresaw — who  could  better  foresee,  for  who 
has  had  greater  experience  of  Mr.  Dombey  than  myself  ? — that 
unless  your  character  should  prove  to  be  as  yielding  and 
obedient  as  that  of  his  first  submissive  lady,  which  I  did  not 
believe " 

A  haughty  smile  gave  dim  reason  to  observe  that  he  might 
repeat  this. 

"  I  say,  which  I  did  not  believe, — the  time  was  likely  to 
come,  when  such  an  understanding  as  we  have  now  arrived  at, 
would  be  serviceable." 


^()8  DOSfliEY  AXD  SOAT. 

"  Serviceable  to  whom,  Sir  ?  "  she  demanded  scornfully. 

"  To  you.  I  will  not  add  to  myself,  as  warning  me  to  refrain 
even  from  that  limited  commendation  of  Mr.  Dombey,  in  which 
I  can  honestly  indulge,  in  order  that  I  may  not  have  the  mis- 
fortune of  saying  anything  distasteful  to  one  whose  aversion 
and  contempt,"  with  great  expression,  "are  so  keen." 

"  It  is  honest  in  you,  Sir,"  said  Edith,  "to  confess  to  your* 
'limited  commendation,'  and  to  speak  in  that  tone  of  disparage- 
ment, even  of  him  :  being  his  chief  counsellor  and  flatterer  !  " 

"  Counsellor, — yes,"  said  Carker.  "  Flatterer, — no.  A 
little  reservation  I  fear  I  must  confess  to.  But  our  interest  and 
convenience  commonly  oblige  many  of  us  to  make  professions 
that  we  cannot  ieel.  We  have  partnerships  of  interest  and  con- 
venience, friendships  of  interest  and  convenience,  dealings  of 
interest  and  convenience,  marriages  of  interest  and  convenience, 
every  day." 

She  bit  her  blood-red  lip  ;  but  without  wavering  in  the  dark, 
stern  watch  she  kept  upon  him. 

"Madam,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  sitting  down  in  a  chair  that 
was  near  her,  widi  an  air  of  the  most  profound  and  most  con- 
siderate respect,  "  why  should  I  hesitate  now,  being  altogether 
devoted  to  your  service,  to  speak  plainly  !  It  was  natural  that 
a  lady,  endowed  as  you  are,  should  think  it  feasible  to  change 
her  husband's  character  in  some  respects,  and  mould  him  to  a 
better  form." 

"  It  was  not  natural  to  fne,  Sir,"  she  rejoined.  "  I  had 
never  any  expectation  or  intention  of  that  kind." 

The  proud  undaunted  face  showed  him  it  was  resolute  to 
wear  no  mask  he  offered,  but  was  set  upon  a  reckless  disclosure 
of  itself,  indifferent  to  any  aspect  in  which  it  might  present 
itself  to  such  as  he. 

"  At  least  it  was  natural,"  he  resumed,  "  that  you  should 
deem  it  quite  possible  to  live  with  Mr.  Dombey  as  his  wife,  at 
once  without  submitting  to  him,  and  without  coming  into  such 
violent  collision  with  him.  But,  Madam,  you  did  not  know  Mr. 
Dombey  (as  you  have  since  ascertained),  when  you  thought 
that.  You  did  not  know  how  exacting  and  how  proud  he  is  r  r 
how  he  is,  if  I  may  say  so,  the  slave  of  his  own  greatness,  and 
goes  yoked  to  his  own  triumphal  car  like  a  beast  of  burden,  with 
no  idea  on  earth  but  that  it  is  behind  him  and  is  to  be  drawn 
on,  over  everything  and  through  everything." 

His  teeth  gleamed  through  his  malicious  relish  of  this  con- 
ceit, as  he  went  on  talking  : 

"  Mr,  Dombey  is  really  capable  of  no  more  true  considers^* 


THE  TRUSTY  AGENT.  5^ 

tion  for  you,  Madam,  than  for  me.  The  comparison  is  an  ex- 
treme one  :  I  intend  it  to  be  so  ;  but  quite  just.  Mr.  Dombey, 
in  the  plenitude  of  his  power,  asked  me — I  had  it  from  his  own 
Ups  yesterday  morning — to  be  his  go  between  to  you,  because 
he  knows  1  am  not  agreeable  to  you,  and  because  he  intends 
that  I  shall  be  a  punishment  for  your  contumacy ;  and  besides 
that,  because  he  really  does  consider,  that  I,  his  paid  servant, 
am  an  ambassador  whom  it  is  derogatory  to  the  dignity — not  of 
the  lady  to  whom  I  have  the  happiness  of  speaking ;  she  has 
no  existence  in  his  mind — but  of  his  wife,  a  part  of  himself,  to 
receive.  You  may  imagine  how  regardless  of  me,  how  obtuse 
to  the  possibility  of  my  having  any  individual  sentiment  or 
opinion  he  is,  when  he  tells  me,  openly,  that  I  am  so  employed. 
You  know  how  perfectly  indifferent  to  your  feelings  he  is,  when 
he  threatens  you  with  such  a  messenger.  As  you,  of  course, 
have  not  forgotten  that  he  did." 

She  watched  him  still  attentively.  But  he  watched  her  too  ; 
and  he  saw  that  this  indication  of  a  knowledge  on  his  part,  of 
something  that  had  passed  between  herself  and  her  husband, 
rankled  and  smarted  in  her  haughty  breast,  like  a  poisoned 
arrow. 

"  I  do  not  recall  all  this  to  widen  the  breach  between  your- 
self and  Mr.  Dombey,  Madam — Heaven  forbid  !  what  would  it 
profit  me  ? — but  as  an  example  of  the  hopelessness  of  im- 
pressing Mr.  Dombey  with  a  sense  that  anybody  is  to  be  con- 
sidered when  he  is  in  question.  We  who  are  about  him,  have, 
in  our  various  positions,  done  our  part,  I  daresay,  to  confirm 
him  in  his  way  of  thinking  ;  but  if  we  had  not  done  so,  others 
would — or  they  would  not  have  been  about  him  ;  and  it  has 
always  been  from  the  beginning,  the  very  staple  of  his  life. 
Mr.  Dombey  has  had  to  deal,  in  short,  with  none  but  sub- 
missive and  dependent  persons,  who  have  bowed  the  knee,  and 
bent  the  neck,  before  him.  He  has  never  known  what  it  is  to 
have  angry  pride  and  strong  resentment  opposed  to  him." 

"  But  he  will  know  it  now  !  "  she  seemed  to  say  ;  though  her 
lips  did  not  part,  nor  her  eyes  falter.  He  saw  the  soft  down 
tremble  once  again,  and  he  saw  her  lay  the  plumage  of  the 
beautiful  bird  against  her  bosom  for  a  moment ;  and  he  un- 
folded one  more  ring  of  the  coil  into  which  he  had  gathered 
himself. 

"  Mr.  Dombey,  though  a  most  honorable  gentleman,"  he 
said,  "  is  so  prone  to  pervert  even  facts  to  his  own  view,  when 
he  is  at  all  opposed,  in  consequence  of  the  warp  in  his  mind, 
that  Jie—Qsn  i  give  a  better  instance  than  this  !— he  sincerely 


goo  DOM  BEY  AND  SON. 

believes  (you  will  excuse  the  folly  of  what  I  am  about  to  say, 
it  not  being  mine)  that  his  severe  expression  of  opinion  to  his 
present  wife,  on  a  certain  special  occasion  she  may  remember, 
before  the  lamented  death  of  Mrs  Skewton,  produced  a  wither- 
ing effect,  and  for  the  moment  quite  subdued  her  !  " 

Edith  laughed.  How  harshly  and  unmusically  need  not  be 
described.     It  is  enough  that  he  was  glad  to  hear  her. 

'*  Madam,"  he  resumed,  "  I  have  done  with  this.  Your  own 
opinions  are  so  strong,  and,  I  am  persuaded,  so  unalterable," 
he  repeated  those  words  slowly  and  with  great  emphasis,  "  that 
I  am  almost  afraid  to  incur  your  displeasure  anew,  when  I  say 
that  in  spite  of  these  defects  and  my  full  knowledge  of  them,  I 
have  become  habituated  to  Mr.  Dombey,  and  esteem  him.  But 
when  I  say  so,  it  is  not,  believe  me,  for  the  mere  sake  of  vaunt- 
ing a  feeling  that  is  so  utterly  at  variance  with  your  own,  and 
for  which  you  can  have  no  sympathy  " — oh  how  distinct  and 
plain  and  emphasized  this  was  !  "  but  to  give  you  an  assurance 
of  the  zeal  with  which,  in  this  unhappy  matter,  I  am  yours, 
and  the  indignation  with  which  I  regard  the  part  I  am  required 
to  fill !  " 

She  sat  as  if  she  were  afraid  to  take  her  eyes  from  his  face. 

And  now  to  unwind  the  last  ring  of  the  coil ! 

"  It  is  growing  late,"  said  Carker,  after  a  pause,  "  and  you 
are,  as  you  said,  fatigued.  But  the  second  object  of  this  inter- 
view, I  must  not  forget.  I  must  recommend  you,  I  must  en- 
treat you  in  the  most  earnest  manner,  for  sufficient  reasons 
that  I  have,  to  be  cautious  in  your  demonstrations  of  regard  for 
Miss  Dombey," 

"  Cautious  !     What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  To  be  careful  how  you  exhibit  too  much  affection  for  that 
young  lady." 

"  Too  much  affection,  Sir  !  "  said  Edith,  knitting  her  broad 
brow  and  rising.  "  Who  judges  my  affection,  or  measures  it 
out  t     You  ?  " 

"  It  is  not  I  who  do  so."  He  was,  or  feigned  to  be,  per- 
plexed. 

"  Who  then  ?  " 

"  Can  you  not  guess  who  then  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  choose  to  guess,"  she  answered. 

"  Madam,"  he  said  after  a  little  hesitation  ;  meantime  they 
had  been,  and  still  were,  regarding  each  other  as  before  ;  "  I 
am  in  a  difficulty  here.  You  have  told  me  you  will  receive  no 
message,  and  you  have  forbidden  me  to  return  to  that  subject ; 
but  thf  two  subjects  ?ire  .so  glosely  entwined,  I  find,  that  un* 


TP!£:  TkUSTV  AGENT.  (^Q^ 

J«SS  you  will  accept  this  vague  caution  from  one  who  has  now 
the  honor  to  possess  your  confidence,  though  the  way  to  it  has 
been  through  your  displeasure,  I  must  violate  the  injunction 
you  have  laid  upon  me." 

"  You  know  that  you  are  free  to  do  so.  Sir,"  said  Edith. 
«*  Do  it." 

So  pale,  so  trembling,  so  impassioned  !  He  had  not  mis- 
calculated the  effect  then  ! 

"  His  instructions  were,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice,  "  that  1 
should  inform  you  that  your  demeanor  towards  Miss  Dombey 
is  not  agreeable  to  him.  That  it  suggests  comparisons  to  him 
which  are  not  favorable  to  himself.  That  he  desires  it  may  be 
wholly  changed ;  and  that  if  you  are  in  earnest,  he  is  confident 
it  will  be  ;  for  your  continued  show  of  affection  will  not  benefit 
its  object." 

"That  is  a  threat,"  she  said. 

"  That  is  a  threat,"  he  answered  in  his  voiceless  manner  of 
assent  ;  adding  aloud,  "  but  not  directed  against  you'' 

Proud,  erect,  and  dignified,  as  she  stood  confronting  him  ; 
and  looking  through  him  as  she  did,  with  her  full  bright  flashing 
eye  ;  and  smiling,  as  she  was,  with  scorn  and  bitterness  ;  she 
sunk  as  if  the  ground  had  dropped  beneath  her,  and  in  an  in- 
stant would  have  fallen  on  the  floor,  but  that  he  caught  her  in 
his  arms.  As  instantaneously  she  threw  him  off,  the  moment 
that  he  touched  lier,  and,  drawing  back,  confronted  him  again, 
immovable,  with  her  hand  stretched  out. 

*'  Please  to  leave  me.  Say  no  more  to-night." 
"  \  feel  the  urgency  of  this,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  "  because  it 
is  im|*^ossible  to  say  what  unforeseen  consequences  rnight  arise, 
or  hc>w  soon,  from  your  being  unacquainted  with  his  state  of 
mind.  I  understand  Miss  Dombey  is  concerned,  now,  at  the 
dismissal  of  her  old  servant,  which  is  likely  to  have  been  a 
minor  consequence  in  itself.  You  don't  blame  me  for  re- 
questing that  Miss  Dombey  might  not  be  present.  May  I  hope 
JO  ? " 

"  I  do  not.     Please  to  leave  me.  Sir." 

"  I  knew  that  your  regard  for  the  young  lady,  which  is  very 
sincere  and  strong,  I  am  well  persuaded,  would  render  it  a 
great  unhappiness  to  you,  ever  to  be  a  prey  to  the  reflection 
that  you  had  injured  her  position  and  ruined  her  futuie  hopes," 
said  Carker  hurriedly,  but  eagerly. 

"  No  more  to-night.     Leave  me,  if  you  please." 
♦'  I  shall  be  here  constantly  in  my  attendance  upon  him,  and 
in  the  transaction  of  business  matters.     You  will  allow  me  to 


1^  l)0.\tBK\  AND  SOkT. 

see  you  again,  and  to  consult  what  should  be  done,  and  leal-h 
your  wishes  ? " 

She  motioned  him  towards  the  door. 

"  I  cannot  even  decide  whether  to  tell  him  I  have  spoken  to 
you  yet  ;  or  to  lead  him  to  suppose  that  I  have  deferred  doing 
so,  for  want  of  opportunity,  or  for  any  other  reason.  It  will  be 
necessary  that  you  should  enable  me  to  consult  with  you  very 
soon." 

"  At  any  time  but  now,"  she  answered. 

"  You  will  understand,  when  I  wish  to  see  you,  that  Miss 
Dombey  is  not  to  be  present ;  and  that  I  seek  an  interview  as 
one  who  has  the  happiness  to  possess  your  confidence,  and 
who  comes  to  render  you  every  assistance  in  his  power,  and, 
perhaps,  on  many  occasions,  to  ward  off  evil  from  her  t " 

Looking  at  him  still  with  the  same  apparent  dread  of  re- 
leasing him  for  a  moment  from  the  influence  of  her  steady  gaze, 
whatever  that  might  be,  she  answered,  "  Yes  !  "  and  once  more 
bade  him  go. 

He  bowed,  as  if  in  compliance  ;  but  turning  back,  when  he 
had  nearly  reached  the  door,  said  : 

"  I  am  forgiven,  and  have  explained  my  fault.  May  I — for 
Miss  Dombey's  sake,  and  for  my  own — take  your  hand  before 
I  go  ?  " 

She  gave  him  the  gloved  hand  she  had  maimed  last  night. 
He  took  it  in  one  of  his,  and  kissed  it,  and  withdrew.  And 
when  he  had  closed  the  door,  he  waved  his  hand  with  which 
be  had  taken  hers,  and  thrust  it  in  his  breast. 


CHAPTER  XLVI. 

RECOGNIZANT   AND    RKFLECTIVE. 

Among  sundry  minor  alterations  in  Mr.  Carker's  life  and 
habits  that  began  to  take  place  at  this  time,  none  was  more  re- 
markable than  the  extraordinary  diligence  with  which  he  ap- 
plied himself  to  business,  and  the  closeness  with  which  he 
investigated  every  detail  that  the  affairs  of  the  House  laid  open 
to  him.  Always  active  and  penetrating  in  such  matters,  his 
lynx-eyed  vigilance  now  increased  twenty-fold.  Not  only  did 
his  weary  watch  keep  pace  with  every  present  point  that  every 


RhCOC^IZANT  AND  kEhl^CTtVE.  603 

day  presented  to  him  some  new  form,  but  in  the  midst  of  these 
engrossing  occupations  he  found  leisure — that  is,  he  made  it— 
to  review  the  past  transactions  of  the  Firm,  and  his  share  in 
them,  during  a  long  series  of  years.  Frequently  when  the 
clerks  were  all  gone,  the  offices  dark  and  empty,  and  all  simi.ar 
places  of  business  shut  up,  Mr.  Carker,  with  the  whole  anat- 
omy of  the  iron  room  laid  bare  before  him,  would  explore  the 
mysteries  of  books  and  papers,  with  the  patient  progress  of  a 
man  who  was  dissecting  the  minutest  nerves  and  fibres  of  his 
subject.  Perch,  the  messenger,  who  usually  remained  on  these 
occasions,  to  entertain  himself  with  the  perusal  of  the  Price 
Current  by  the  light  of  one  candle,  or  to  doze  over  the  fire  in 
the  outer  office,  at  the  imminent  risk  every  moment  of  diving 
head  foremost  into  the  coal  box,  could  not  withhold  the  tribute 
of  his  admiration  from  this  zealous  conduct,  although  it  much 
contracted  his  domestic  enjoyments  ;  and  again,  and  again,  ex- 
jjatiated  to  Mrs.  Perch  (now  nursing  twins)  on  the  industry 
and  acuteness  of  their  managing  gentleman  in  the  City. 

The  same  increased  and  sharp  attention  that  Mr.  Carker 
Destowed  on  the  business  of  the  House,  he  applied  to  his  own 
personal  affairs.  Though  not  a  partner  in  the  concern — a  dis- 
tinction hitherto  reserved  solely  to  inheritors  of  the  great  name 
of  Dombey — he  w  as  in  the  receipt  of  some  percentage  on  its 
dealing  ;  and,  participating  in  all  its  facilities  for  the  employ- 
ment of  money  to  advantage,  was  considered,  by  the  minnows 
among  the  tritons  of  the  East,  a  rich  man.  It  began  to  be 
said,  among  these  shrewd  observers,  that  Jem  Carker,  of  Dom- 
bey's,  was  looking  about  him  to  see  what  he  was  worth  ;  and 
that  he  was  calling  in  his  money  at  a  good  time,  like  the  long- 
headed fellow  he  was  ;  and  bets  were  even  offered  on  the  Stock 
Exchange  that  Jem  was  going  to  marry  a  rich  widow. 

Yet  these  cares  did  not  in  the  least  interfere  with  Mr.  Car- 
ker's  watching  of  his  chief,  or  with  his  cleanness,  neatness, 
sleekness,  or  any  caMjke  quality  he  possessed.  It  was  not  so 
much  that  there  was  a  change  in  him,  in  reference  to  any  of 
his  habits,  as  that  the  whole  man  was  intensified.  Everythin* 
that  had  been  observable  in  him  before,  was  observable  now, 
but  with  a  greater  amount  of  concentration.  He  did  each  single 
thing,  as  if  he  did  nothing  else — a  pretty  certain  indication  in 
a  man  of  that  range  of  ability  and  purpose,  that  he  is  doing 
something  which  sharpens  and  keeps  alive  his  keenest  powers. 

The  only  decided  alteration  in  him  was,  that  as  he  rode  to 
and  fro  along  the  streets,  he  would  fall  into  deep  fits  of  mus- 
ing, like  that  in  which  he  had  come  away  from  Mr.  Dombey's 


6o4  DO. M HEY  A. VI)  SOM 

kouse,  on  the  morning  of  that  gentleman's  disaster.  At  such 
times,  he  would  keep  clear  of  :he  obstacles  in  his  way,  mechan- 
ically ;  and  would  appear  to  see  and  hear  nothing  until  arrival 
at  his  destination,  or  some  sudden  chance  or  effort  roused 
kim. 

Walking  his  white-legged  horse  thus,  to  the  counting-house 
of  Dombey  and  Son  one  day,  he  vvas  as  unconscious  of  the  ob- 
servation of  two  pairs  of  women's  eyes,  as  of  the  fascinated 
orbs  of  Rob  the  Grinder,  who,  in  waiting  a  street's  length  from 
the  appointed  place,  as  a  demonstration  of  punctuality,  vainly 
touched  and  retouched  his  hat  to  attract  attention,  and  trotted 
along  on  foot,  by  his  master's  side,  prepared  to  hold  his  stirrup 
when  he  should  alight. 

**  See  where  he  goes  !  "  cried  one  of  these  two  women,  an 
old  creature,  who  stretched  out  her  shrivelled  arm  to  point  him 
out  to  her  companion,  a  young  woman,  who  stood  close  beside 
her,  withdrawn  like  herself  into  a  gateway. 

Mr.  Brown's  daughter  looked  out,  at  this  bidding  on  the 
part  of  Mrs.  Brown  ;  and  there  was  wrath  and  vengeance  in 
ker  face. 

"  I  never  thought  to  look  at  him  again,"  she  said,  in  a  low 
yoice  ;  "  but  it's  well  I  should,  perhaps.     1  see.     I  see  !  " 

"  Not  changed  !  "  said  the  old  woman,  with  a  look  of  eager 
malice. 

"  He  changed  !  "  returned  the  other,  "  What  for  ?  What 
has  he  suffered  ?  There  is  change  enough  for  twenty  in  me. 
Isn't  that  enough  ?  " 

"  See  where  he  goes  !  "  muttered  the  old  woman,  watching 
her  daughter  with  her  red  eyes  ;  "  so  easy  and  so  trim,  a'horse- 
back,  while  we  are  in  the  mud — " 

"  And  of  it,"  said  her  daughter  impatiently.  "  We  are  mud, 
underneath  his  horse's  feet.     WJiat  should  we  be  ?  " 

In  the  intenseness  with  which  she  looked  after  him  again, 
she  made  a  hasty  gesture  with  her  hand  when  the  old  woman 
began  to  reply,  as  if  her  view  could  be  obstructed  by  the  mere 
sound.  Her  mother  watching  her,  and  not  him,  remained 
silent ;  until  her  kindling  glance  subsided,  and  she  drew  a  long 
breath,  as  if  in  the  relief  of  his  being  gone. 

"  Deary  1  "  said  the  old  woman  then.  "  Alice  !  "  Hand- 
some gal !  Ally  !  "  She  gently  shook  her  sleeve  to  arouse  her 
attention.  Will  you  let  him  go  like  that,  when  you  can  wring 
money  from  him?     Why,  it's  a  wickedness,  my  daughter." 

"  Haven't  I  told  you,  that  I  will  not  have  money  from  him  ?  " 
she  returned,     ''  And  don't  you  yet  believe  me  ?  "     Did  I  tako 


RECOGNIZANT  AND  REFLECTIVE.  605 

his  sister's  money  ?  Would  I  touch  a  penny,  if  I  knew  it,  that 
had  gone  through  his  white  hands — unless,  it  was,  indeed,  that 
T  could  poison  it,  and  send  it  back  to  him  ?  Peace,  mother, 
and  come  away." 

"  And  him  so  rich  ? "  murmured  the  old  woman,  "  And  us 
so  poor  ! " 

"  Poor  in  not  being  able  to  pay  him  any  of  the  harm  we 
owe  him,"  returned  her  daughter.  "  Let  him  give  me  that 
sort  of  riches,  and  I'll  take  them  from  him,  and  use  them. 
Come  away.  It's  no  good  looking  at  his  horse.  Come  away, 
mother  !  " 

But  the  old  woman,  for  whom  the  spectacle  of  Rob  the 
Grinder  returning  down  the  street,  leading  the  riderless  horse, 
appeared  to  have  some  extraneous  interest  that  it  did  not  pos- 
sess in  itself,  surveyed  that  young  man  with  the  utmost  earnest- 
ness :  and  seeming  to  have  whatever  doubts  she  entertained, 
resolved  as  he  drew  nearer,  glanced  at  her  daughter  with 
brightened  eyes  and  with  her  finger  on  her  lip,  and  emerging 
from  the  gateway  at  the  moment  of  his  passing,  touched  him 
on  the  shoulder. 

"  Why,  Where's  my  sprightly  Rob  been,  all  this  time  !  "  she 
said,  as  he  turned  round. 

The  sprightly  Rob,  whose  sprightliness  was  very  much 
diminished  by  the  salutation,  looked  exceedingly  dismayed,  and 
said,  with  the  water  rising  in  his  eyes  : 

"  Oh  !  why  can't  you  leave  a  poor  cove  alone.  Misses  Brown, 
when  he's  getting  an  honest  livelihood  and  conducting  him- 
self respectable  1  What  do  you  come  and  deprive  a  cove  of 
his  character  for,  by  talking  to  him  in  the  streets,  when  he's 
taking  his  master's  horse  to  a  honest  stable — a  horse  you'd  go 
and  sell  for  cats'  and  dogs'  meat  if  you  had  your  way  !  Why,  I 
thought,"  said  the  Grinder,  producing  his  concluding  remark 
as  if  it  were  the  climax  of  all  his  injuries,  "  that  you  was  dead 
long  ago  !  " 

"  This  is  the  way,"  cried  the  old  woman,  appealing  to  her 
daughter,  "  that  he  talks  to  me,  who  knew  him  weeks  and 
months  together,  my  deary,  and  have  stood  his  friend  many 
and  many  a  time  among  the  pigeon-fancying  tramps  and  bird- 
catchers." 

"  Let  the  birds  be,  will  you.  Misses  Brown  ?  "  retorted  Rob, 
in  a  tone  of  the  acutest  anguish.  "  I  think  a  cove  had  better 
have  to  do  with  lions  than  them  little  creatures,  for  they're 
always  flying  back  in  your  face  when  you  least  expect  it.  Well, 
hQw  d'ye  do  and  what  do  you  want  1 "    These  polite  irquiriw 


Co6  DOMBIi  V  AND  SON. 

the  Grindei  uttered,  as  it   were  under  protest,  and  with  great 
exasperation  and  vindictiveness. 

"  Hark  how  he  speaks  to  an  old  friend,  my  deary !  "  said 
Mrs.  Brown,  again  appeaUng  to  her  daughter.  "  But  there'.s 
some  of  Iiis  old  friends  not  so  patient  as  me.  If  I  was  to  tell 
some  that  he  knows,  and  has  sported  and  cheated  with,  where 
to  hnd  him — " 

"  Will  you  hold  your  ton^e,  Misses  Brown  ?"  interrupted 
the  miserable  Grinder,  glancing  quickly  round,  as  though  he 
expected  to  see  his  master's  teeth  shining  at  his  elbow.  "What 
do  you  take  a  pleasure  in  ruining  a  cove  for?  At  your  time 
of  life  too  !  when  you  ought  to  be  thinking  of  a  variety  of 
things  I  " 

"  What  a  gallant  horse  !  "  said  the  old  woman,  patting  the 
animal's  neck. 

"  Let  him  alone,  will  you.  Misses  Brown  ? "  cried  Rob, 
pushing  away  her  hand.  "  You're  enough  to  drive  a  penitent 
cove  mad  !  " 

"Why,  what  hurt  do  I  do  him,  child?"  returned  the  old 
woman. 

"  Hurt  ?  "  said  Rob.  "  He's  got  a  master  that  would  find 
it  out  if  he  was  touched  with  a  straw."  And  he  blew  upon  the 
place  where  the  old  woman's  hand  had  rested  for  a  moment, 
and  smoothed  it  gently  with  his  finger,  as  if  he  seriously  be- 
lieved what  he  said. 

The  old  woman  looking  back  to  mumble  and  mouth  at  her 
daughter,  who  followed,  kept  close  to  Rob's  heels  as  he  walked 
on  with  the  bridle  in  his  hand,  and  pursued  the  conversation. 

"  A  good  place,  Rob,  eh  ?  "  said  she.  "  You're  in  luck,  my 
child." 

"  Oh  don't  talk  about  luck.  Misses  Brown,"  returned  the 
wretched  Grinder,  facing  round  and  stopping.  "  If  you'd  never 
come,  or  if  you'd  go  away,  then  indeed  a  cove  might  be  con- 
sidered tolerably  hicky.  Can't  you  go  along.  Misses  Brown, 
and  not  foller  me !  "  blubbered  Rob,  with  sudden  defiance. 
"  If  the  young  woman's  a  friend  of  yours,  why  don't  she  take 
you  away,  instead  of  letting  you  make  yourself  so  disgraceful !  " 

"  What !  "  croaked  the  old  woman,  putting  her  face  close  to 
his,  with  a  malevolent  grin  upon  it  that  puckered  up  the  loose 
skin  down  in  her  very  throat.  "  Do  you  deny  your  old  chum  ? 
Have  you  lurked  to  my  house  fifty  times,  and  slept  sound  in  a 
corner  when  you  had  no  other  bed  but  the  paving-stones,  and 
do  vou  talk  to  me  like  this  !  Have  I  bought  and  sold  with  you 
and  helped  you  in  my  way  of  business,  schoolboy,  sneak,  at  4 


RECOGNIZANi    AND  REFLECTIVE  607 

what  not,  and  do  you  tell  me  to  go  along?  Could  I  laise  a 
crowd  of  old  company  about  you  to-morrow  morning,  that 
would  follow  you  to  ruin  like  copies  of  your  own  shadow,  and 
do  you  turn  on  me  with  your  bold  looks  !  I'll  go.  Come, 
Alice." 

"  Stop,  Misses  Brown ! "  cried  the  distracted  Grinder. 
"What  are  you  doing  of?  Don't  put  yourself  in  a  passion! 
Don't  let  her  go,  if  you  please.  I  haven't  meant  any  offence. 
I  said  'how  d'ye  do,' at  first,  didn't  I?  But  you' wouldn't 
answer.  How  do  you  do  ?  Besides,"  said  Rob  piteously, 
"  look  here  !  How  can  a  cove  stand  talking  in  the  street  witti 
his  master's  prad  a  wanting  to  be  took  to  be  rubbed  down,  and 
his  master  up  to  every  individgle  thing  that  happens  !  " 

The  old  woman  made  a  show  of  being  partially  appeased, 
but  shook  her  head,  and  mouthed  and  muttered  still. 

"  Come  along  to  the  stables,  and  have  a  glass  of  something 
that's  good  for  you.  Misses  Brown,  can't  you  ?  "  said  Rob, 
"instead  of  going  on,  like  that,  which  is  no  good  to  you,  nor 
anybody  else  ?  Come  along  with  her,  will  you  be  so  kind  ?  " 
said  Rob.  "I'm  sure  I'm  delighted  to  see  her,  if  it  wasn't  for 
the  horse ! " 

With  this  apology,  Rob  turned  away,  a  rueful  picture  of 
despair,  and  walked  his  charge  down  a  by-street.  The  old 
woman,  mouthing  at  her  daughter,  followed  close  upon  him. 
The  daughter  followed. 

Turning  into  a  silent  little  square  or  court-yard  that  had  a 
great  church  tower  rising  above  it,  and  a  packer's  warehouse, 
and  a  bottle-maker's  warehouse,  for  its  places  of  business,  Rob 
the  Grinder  delivered  the  white-legged  horse  to  the  hostler  of 
a  quaint  stable  at  the  corner  ;  and  inviting  Mrs.  Brown  and 
her  daughter  to  seat  themselves  upon  a  stone  bench  at  the  gate 
of  that  establishment,  soon  reappeared  from  a  neighboring 
public-house  with  a  pewter  measure  and  a  glass. 

"  Here's  master — Mr.  Carker,  child  ! "  said  the  old  woman, 
slowly,  as  her  sentiment  before  drinking.     "  Lord  bless  him  !  " 

"Why,  I  didn't  tell  you  who  he  was  ?  "  observed  Rob,  with 
staring  eyes. 

"  We  know  him  by  sight,"  said  Mrs.  Brown,  whose  working 
mouth  and  nodding  head  stopped  for  the  moment,  in  the  fixed- 
ness of  her  attention.  "  We  saw  him  pass  this  morning,  afore 
he  got  off  his  horse ;  when  you  were  ready  to  take  it." 

"  Ay,  ay  ? "  returned  Rob,  appearing  to  wish  that  his 
readiness  had  carried  him  to  any  other  place — "  What's  the 
jHRtter  with  h?r  ?    Won't  she  drink  1  " 


6oS  DOMBE  Y  AA'D  SO  A*. 

This  inquiry  had  reference  to  Alice,  who,  folded  in  her 
cloak,  sat  a  little  apart  profoundly  inattentive  to  his  offer  of 
the  replenished  glass. 

The  old  woman  shook  her  head.  "Don't  mind  her,"  she 
said ;  "  she's  a  strange  creetur,  if  you  know'd  her,  Rob.  But 
Mr.  Carker — " 

"  Hush  !  "  said  Rob,  glancing  cautiously  up  at  the  packer's, 
and  at  the  bottle-maker's,  as  if,  from  any  one  of  the  tiers  of 
warehouses,  Mr.  Carker  might  be  looking  down.     "  Softly." 

"  Why,  he  ain't  here  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Brown. 

"  I  don't  know  that,"  muttered  Rob,  whose  glance  even 
wandered  to  the  church  tower,  as  if  he  might  be  there,  with  a 
supernatural  power  of  hearing. 

"  Good  master .'  "  inquired  Mrs.  Brown. 

Rob  nodded  ;  and  added,  in  a  low  voice,  "  precious  sharp." 

"  Lives  ou<"  of  town,  don't  he,  lovey  ?  "  said  the  old  woman. 

"When  he's  at  home,"  returned  Rob;  "but  we  don't  live 
at  home  just  now." 

"Where  then  ?  "  asked  the  old  woman. 

"  Lodgings  ;  up  near  Mr.  Dombey's,"  returned  Rob. 

The  younger  woman  fixed  her  eyes  so  searchingly  upon 
him,  and  so  suddenly,  that  Rob  was  quite  confounded,  and 
offered  the  glass  again,  but  with  no  more  effect  upon  her  than 
before. 

"  Mr.  Dombey — you  and  I  used  to  talk  about  him,  some- 
times, you  know,"  said  Rob  to  Mrs.  Brown.  "  You  used  to 
get  me  to  talk  about  him." 

The  old  woman  nodded. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Dombey,  he's  had  a  fall  from  his  horse,"  said 
Rob,  unwillingly ;  "  and  my  master  has  to  be  up  there,  more 
than  usual,  either  with  him,  or  Mrs.  Dombey,  or  some  of  'em  ; 
and  so  we've  come  to  town." 

"  Are  they  good  friends,  lovey  ?  "  asked  the  old  woman. 

"  Who  ?  "'  retorted  Rob. 

"  He  and  she  ?  " 

"  What,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Dombey.? "  said  Rob.  "  How  should 
/know  ? " 

"  Not  them — Master  and  Mrs.  Dombey,  chick,"  replied  the 
old  woman,  coaxingly. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Rob,  looking  round  him  again.  "I 
suppose  so.  How  curious  you  are,  Misses  Brown  1  Least  said, 
soonest  mended." 

"  Why  tliere's  no  harm  in  it !  "  exclaimed  the  old  woman, 
with  a  laugh,  and  a  clap  of  her  hands.     "  Sprightly  Rob  lias 


RECOG.VIZANT  AND  HEFLEC  Tl I 'E.  605 

grown  tame  since  he  has  been  well  off!  There's  no  harm 
in  it." 

"  No,  there's  no  harm  in  it,  I  know,"  returned  Rob,  with 
che  same  distrustful  glance  at  the  packer's  and  the  bottle- 
maker'p,  and  the  churcli ;  "but  blabbing,  if  it's  only  about  the 
number  of  buttons  on  my  master's  coat,  won't  do.  I  tell  you 
it  won't  do  with  him.  A  cove  had  better  drown  himself.  He 
says  so.  I  shouldn't  have  so  much  as  told  you  what  his  name 
was,  if  you  hadn't  known  it.     Talk  about  somebody  else." 

As  Rob  took  another  cautious  survey  of  the  yard,  the  old 
woman  made  a  secret  motion  to  her  daughter.  It  was  momen- 
tary, but  the  daughter,  with  a  slight  look  of  intelligence,  with- 
drew her  eyes  from  the  boy's  face,  and  sat  folded  in  her  cloak 
as  before. 

"  Rob,  lovey !  "  said  the  old  woman,  beckoning  him  to  the 
other  end  of  the  bench.  "You  were  always  a  pet  and  favorite 
of  mine.     Now,  weren't  you  ?     Don't  you  know  we  were  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Misses  Brown,"  replied  the  Grinder,  with  a  very  bad 
grace. 

"  And  you  could  leave  me  !  "  said  the  old  woman,  flinging 
her  arms  about  his  neck.  "  You  could  go  away,  and  grow  al- 
most out  of  knowledge,  and  never  come  to  tell  your  poor  old 
friend  how  fortunate  you  were,  proud  lad  !     Oho,  Oho  !  " 

"  Oh,  here's  a  dreadful  go  for  a  cove  that's  got  a  master 
wide  awake  in  the  neighborhood !  "  exclaimed  the  wretched 
Grinder.     "  To  be  howled  over  like  this  here  I ' 

"  Won't  you  come  and  see  me,  Robby  ?  "  cried  Mrs.  Brown. 
"  Oho,  won't  you  ever  come  and  see  me  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  tell  you  !     Yes,  I  will !  "  returned  the  Grinder. 

"  That's  my  own  Rob !  That's  my  lovey ! "  said  Mrs. 
Brown,  drying  the  tears  upon  her  shrivelled  face,  and  giving 
him  a  tender  squeeze.     "At  the  old  place,  Rob  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  Grinder. 

"  Soon,  Robby  dear  ?  "  cried  Mrs.  Brown  ;  "  and  often  ? ' 

"  Yes.  Yes.  Yes,"  replied  Rob.  "  I  will  indeed,  upon 
my  soul  and  body." 

"  And  then,"  said  Mrs.  Brown,  with  her  arms  uplifted  to- 
wards the  sky,  and  her  head  thrown  back  and  shaking,  "  if  he's 
true  to  his  word,  I'll  never  come  a-near  him,  though  I  know 
where  he  is,  and  never  breathe  a  syllable  about  hiin.     Never !  " 

This  ejaculation  seemed  a  drop  of  comfort  to  the  miserable 
Grinder,  who  shook  Mrs.  Brown  by  the  hand  upon  it,  and  im- 
ploped  her  with  tears  in  his  eyes  to  leave  a  cove  and  not  de- 
stroy his  prospects.     Mrs.  Browix,  with  another  fond  embrace 


assented ;  but  in  the  act  of  following  her  daughter,  turned 
back,  with  her  finger  stealthily  raised,  and  asked  in  a  hoarse 
whisper  for  some  money. 

"  A  shilling,  dear !  "  she  said,  with  her  eager  avaricious 
face,  "  or  sixpence  !  For  old  acquaintance'  sake.  I'm  so  poor. 
And  my  handsome  gal  " — looking  over  her  shoulder — "  she's 
my  gal,  Rob — half  starves  me," 

But  as  the  reluctant  Grinder  put  it  in  her  hand,  her  daugh- 
ter, coming  quickly  back,  caught  the  hand  in  hers,  and  twisted 
out  the  coin. 

"  What,"  she  said,  "  mother !  always  money  !  money  from 
the  first,  and  to  the  last.  Do  you  mind  so  little  what  I  said 
but  now  .''     Here.     Take  it !  " 

The  old  woman  uttered  a  moan  as  the  money  was  restored, 
but  without  in  any  other  way  opposing  its  restoration,  hobbled 
at  her  daughter's  side  out  of  the  yard,  and  along  the  by-street 
upon  which  it  opened.  The  astonished  and  dismayed  Rob 
staring  after  them,  saw  that  they  stopped,  and  fell  to  earnest 
conversation  very  soon  ;  and  more  than  once  observed  a  darkly 
threatening  action  of  the  younger  woman's  hand  (obviously 
having  reference  to  some  one  of  whom  they  spoke),  and  a 
crooning  feeble  imitation  of  it  on  the  part  of  Mrs.  Brown,  that 
made  him  earnestly  hope  he  might  not  be  the  subject  of  their 
discourse. 

With  the  present  consolation  that  they  were  gone,  and  with 
the  prospective  comfort  that  Mrs.  Brown  could  not  live  for 
ever,  and  was  not  likely  to  live  long  to  trouble  him,  the 
Grinder,  not  otherwise  regretting  his  misdeeds  than  as  they 
were  attended  with  such  disagreeable  incidental  consequences, 
composed  his  ruffled  features  to  a  more  serene  expression  by 
thinking  of  the  admirable  manner  in  which  he  had  disposed  of 
Captain  Cuttle  (a  reflection  that  seldom  failed  to  put  him  in  a 
flow  of  spirits),  and  went  to  the  Dombey  Counting  House  to 
receive  his  master's  orders. 

There  his  master,  so  subtle  and  vigilant  of  eye,  that  Rob 
quaked  before  him,  more  than  half  expecting  to  be  taxed  with 
Mrs.  Brown,  gave  him  the  usual  morning's  box  of  papers  for 
Mr.  Dombey,  and  a  note  for  Mrs.  Dombey :  merely  nodding 
his  head  as  an  enjoinder  to  be  careful,  and  to  use  dispatch — a 
mysterious  admonition,  fraught  in  the  Grinder's  imagination 
with  dismal  warnings  and  threats  ;  and  more  powerful  with 
him  than  any  words. 

Alone  again,  in  his  own  room,  Mr.  Carker  applied  himself 
lo  work,  and  worked  all  day.     He  saw  many  visitors  :    over- 


RRCOCNtZANT  AMD  REFLECTIVE.  6n 

iooked  a  number  of  documents  ;  went  in  and  out,  to  and  from, 
sundry  places  of  mercantile  resort ;  and  indulged  in  no  more 
abstraction  until  the  day's  business  was  done.  But,  when  the 
usual  clearance  of  papers  from  his  table  was  made  at  last,  he 
fell  into  his  thoughtful  mood  once  more. 

He  was  standing  in  his  accustomed  place  and  attitude,  with 
his  eyes  intently  fixed  upon  the  ground,  when  his  brother  en- 
tered  to  bring  back  some  letters  that  had  been  taken  out  in  the 
course  of  the  day.  He  put  them  quietly  on  the  table,  and  was 
going  immediately,  when  Mr.  Carker  the  manager,  whose  eyes 
had  rested  on  him,  on  his  entrance,  as  if  they  had  all  this  time 
had  him  for  the  subject  of  their  contemplation,  instead  of  the 
office-floor,  said  : 

"Well,  John  Carker,  and  what  brings ^'^«  here?" 

His  brother  pointed  to  the  letters,  and  was  again  withdraw- 
ing. 

"  I  wonder,"  said  the  Manager,  "  that  you  can  come  and  go, 
without  inquiring  how  our  master  is." 

"  We  had  word  this  morning  in  the  counting-house,  that  Mr. 
Dombey  was  doing  well,"  replied  his  brother. 

"  You  are  such  a  meek  fellow,"  said  the  Manager,  with  a 
smile,  " — but  you  have  grown  so,  in  the  course  of  years — that 
if  any  harm  came  to  him,  you'd  be  miserable,  I  dare  swear 
now." 

"  I  should  be  truly  sorry,  James,"  returned  the  other. 

"  He  would  be  sorry  !  "  said  the  Manager,  pointing  at  him, 
as  if  there  were  some  other  person  present  to  whom  he  was  ap- 
pealing. "  He  would  be  truly  sorry  !  This  brother  of  mine  ! 
This  junior  of  the  place,  this  slighted  piece  of  lumber,  pushed 
aside  with  his  face  to  the  wall,  like  a  rotten  picture,  and  left  so, 
for  Heaven  knows  how  many  years ;  //^'s  all  gratitude  and  re- 
spect, and  devotion  too,  he  would  have  me  believe  !  " 

"  I  would  have  you  believe  nothing,  James,"  returned  the 
other.  "  Be  as  just  to  me  as  you  would  to  any  other  man  be- 
low you.     You  ask  a  question,  and  I  answer  it." 

"And  have  you  nothing,  Spaniel,"  said  the  Manager,  with 
unusual  irascibility,  "  to  complain  of  in  him?  No  proud  treat- 
ment to  resent,  no  insolence,  no  foolery  of  state,  no  exaction  of 
any  sort  1     What  the  devil !  are  you  man  or  mouse  ?  " 

"  It  would  be  strange  if  any  two  persons  could  be  together 
for  so  many  years,  especially  as  superior  and  inferior,  without 
each  having  something  to  complain  of  in  the  other — as  he 
thought,  at  all  events,' '  replied  John  Carker.  "  But  apart  frona 
my  history  here — — " 


l^lj  DOMBEY  AND  sou. 

"  His  history  here  ! "  exclaimed  the  Manager.  "  Why,  there 
it  is.  The  very  fact  that  makes  him  an  extreme  case,  puts  him 
out  of  the  whole  chapter !     Well  ?  " 

"  Apart  from  that,  which,  as  you  hint,  gives  me  a  reason  to 
be  thankful  that  I  alone  (happily  for  all  the  rest)  possess,  surely 
there  is  no  one  in  the  house  who  would  not  say  and  feel  at 
least  as  much.  You  do  not  think  that  anybody  here  would  be 
indifferent  to  a  mischance  or  misfortune  happening  to  the  head 
of  the  House,  or  anything  than  truly  sorry  for  it  ?  " 

"  You  have  good  reason  to  be  bound  to  him  too  !  "  said  the 
Manager,  contemptuously.  "  Why,  don't  you  believe  that  you 
are  kept  here,  as  a  cheap  example,  and  a  famous  instance  of  the 
clemency  of  Donibey  and  Son,  redounding  to  the  credit  of  the 
illustrious  House  ?  " 

"  No,"  replied  his  brother,  mildly,  "  I  have  long  believed 
that  I  am  kept  here  for  more  kind  and  disinterested  reasons." 

"But  you  were  going,"  said  the  Manager,  with  the  snarl  of 
a  tiger-cat,  "to  recite  some  Christian  precept,  I  observed." 

"Nay,  James,"  returned  the  other,  "though  the  tie  of 
brotherhood  between  us  has  been  long  broken  and  thrown 
away " 

"  Who  broke  it,  good  Sir  ?  "  said  the  Manager. 

"  I,  by  my  misconduct.     I  do  not  charge  it  upon  you." 

The  Manager  replied,  with  that  mute  action  of  his  bristling 
mouth,  "  Oh,  you  don't  charge  it  upon  me  !  "  and  bade  him 
go  on. 

"  I  say,  though  there  is  not  that  tie  between  us,  do  not,  I 
entreat,  assail  me  with  unnecessary  taunts,  or  misinterpret  what 
I  say,  or  would  say.  I  was  only  going  to  suggest  to  you  that 
it  would  be  a  mistake  to  suppose  that  it  is  only  you,  who  have 
been  selected  here,  above  all  others,  for  advancement,  con 
fidence  and  distinction  (selected,  in  the  beginning,  I  know,  foi 
your  great  ability  and  trustfulness),  and  who  communicate  mou 
freely  with  Mr.  Dombey  than  any  one,  and  stand,  it  may  be  saU. 
on  equal  terms  with  him,  and  have  been  favored  and  enrichec 
by  him — that  it  would  be  a  mistake  to  suppose  that  it  is  only 
you  who  are  tender  of  his  welfare  and  reputation.  There  is  no 
one  in  the  House,  from  yourself  down  to  the  lowest,  I  sincerely 
believe,  who  docs  not  participate  in  that  feeling." 

"  You  lie  !  "  said  the  Manager,  red  with  sudden  anger. 
"  You're  a  hypocrite,  John  Carker,  and  you  lie  !  " 

"James  !  "  cried  the  other,  flushing  in  his  turn.  "  What  do 
you  mean  by  these  insulting  words  ?  Why  do  you  so  basely  use 
them  to  me,  unprovoked  ?  " 


RECOGNIZANT  AND  REFLECTIVE.  gj^ 

"  I  tell  you,"  said  the  Manager,  "  that  your  hypocrisy  and 
meekness — that  all  the  hypocrisy  and  meekness  of  this  place 
— is  not  worth  that  to  me,"  snapping  his  thumb  and  fin- 
ger, "  and  that  I  see  through  it  as  if  it  were  air  !  There 
is  not  a  man  employed  here,  standing  between  myself  and 
the  lowest  in  the  place  (of  whom  you  are  very  considerate, 
and  with  reason,  for  he  is  not  far  off),  who  wouldn't  be  glad  at 
heart  to  see  his  master  humbled  :  who  does  not  hate  him, 
secretly  :  who  does  not  wish  him  evil  rather  than  good  :  and 
who  would  not  turn  upon  him,  if  he  had  the  power  and  bold- 
ness. The  nearer  to  his  favor,  the  nearer  to  his  insolence,  the 
closer  to  him,  the  farther  from  him.     That's  the  creed  here  !  '' 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  his  brother,  whose  roused  feelings  had 
soon  yielded  to  surprise,  "  who  may  have  abused  your  ear  with 
such  representations  ;  or  why  you  have  chosen  to  try  me, 
rather  than  another.  But  that  you  have  been  trying  me,  and 
tampering  with  me,  I  am  now  sure.  You  have  a  different  man- 
ner and  a  different  aspect  from  any  that  I  ever  saw  in  you.  I 
will  only  say  to  you,  once  more,  you  are  deceived." 

"  I  know  I  am,"  said  the  Manager.     "  I  have  told  you  so." 

"  Not  by  me,"  returned  his  brother.  "  By  your  informant,  if 
you  have  one.     If  not,  by  your  own  thoughts  and  suspicions." 

"  I  have  no  suspicions,"  said  the  Manager.  "  Mine  are  cer- 
tainties. You  pusillanimous,  abject,  cringing  dogs  !  All  mak- 
ing the  same  show,  all  canting  the  same  story,  all  whining  the 
same  professions,  all  harboring  the  same  transparent  secret." 

His  brother  withdrew,  without  saying  more,  and  shut  the 
door  as  he  concluded.  Mr.  Carker  the  Manager  drew  a  chair 
close  before  the  fire,  and  fell  to  beating  the  coals  softly  with 
the  poker. 

"The  faint-hearted,  fawning  knaves,"  he  muttered,  with  his 
two  shining  rows  of  teeth  laid  bare.  "  There's  not  one  among 
them,  who  wouldn't  feign  to  be  so  shocked  and  outraged — ! 
Bah !  There's  not  one  among  them,  but  if  he  had  at  once  the 
power,  and  the  wit  and  daring  to  use  it,  would  scatter  Dombey's 
pride  and  lay  it  low,  as  ruthlessly  as  I  rake  out  these  ashes." 

As  he  broke  them  up  and  strewed  them  in  the  grate,  he 
looked  on  with  a  thoughtful  smile  at  what  he  was  doing. 
"Without  the  same  queen  beckoner  too  !  "  he  added  presently; 
"  and  there  is  pride  there,  not  to  be  forgotten — witness  our  own 
acquaintance  !  "  With  that  he  fell  into  a  deeper  reverie,  and 
sat  pondering  over  the  blackening  grate,  until  he  rose  up  like  a 
man  who  had  been  absorbed  in  a  book,  and  looking  round  him 
took  his  hat  and  gloves,  went  to  where  his  horse  was  wait'ng, 


5 1 4  DOMBE  V  AND  SO^. 

mounted,  and  rode  away  through  the  lighted  streets,  foi  it  waj 
evening. 

lie  rode  near  Mr.  Dombey's  house;  and  falling  into  a 
walk  as  he  approached  it,  looked  up  at  the  windows.  The 
window  where  he  had  once  seen  Florence  sitting  with  her  dog, 
attracted  his  attention  first,  though  there  was  no  light  in  it ; 
but  he  smiled  as  he  carried  his  eyes  up  the  tall  front  of  the 
house,  and  seemed  to  leave  that  object  superciliously  behind, 

"Time  was,"  he  said,  "when  it  was  well  to  watch  even  your 
rising  little  star,  and  know  in  what  quarter  there  were  clouds, 
to  shadow  you,  if  needful.  But  a  planet  has  arisen,  and  you 
are  lost  in  its  light." 

He  turned  the  white-legged  horse  round  the  street  corner, 
and  sought  one  shining  window  from  among  those  at  the  back 
of  the  house.  Associated  with  it  was  a  certain  stately  presence, 
a  gloved  hand,  the  remembrance  how  the  feathers  of  a  beauti- 
ful bird's  wing  had  been  showered  down  upon  the  floor,  and 
how  the  light  white  down  upon  a  robe  had  stirred  and  rustled, 
as  in  the  rising  of  a  distant  storm.  These  were  the  things  he 
carried  with  him  as  he  turned  away  again,  and  rode  through  the 
darkening  and  deserted  Parks  at  a  quick  rate. 

In  fatal  truth,  these  were  associated  with  a  woman,  a  proud 
woman,  who  hated  him,  but  who  by  slow  and  sure  degrees  had 
been  led  on  by  his  craft,  and  her  pride  and  resentment,  to  en- 
dure his  company,  and  little  by  little  to  receive  him  as  one  who 
had  the  privilege  to  talk  to  her  of  her  own  defiant  disregard  of 
her  own  husband,  and  her  abandonment  of  high  consideration 
for  herself.  They  were  associated  with  a  woman  who  hated 
him  deeply,  and  who  knew  him,  and  who  mistrusted  him  be- 
cause she  knew  him,  and  because  he  knew  her;  but  who  fed  her 
fierce  resentment  by  suffering  him  to  draw  nearer  and  yet  near- 
er to  her  every  day,  in  spite  of  the  hate  she  cherished  for  him. 
In  spite  of  it !  For  that  very  reason  ;  since  its  depths,  too  far 
down  for  her  threatening  eye  to  pierce,  though  she  could  see 
into  them  dimly,  lay  the  dark  retaliation,  whose  faintest  shadow 
seen  once  and  shuddered  at,  and  never  seen  again,  would  have 
been  sufhcient  stain  upon  her  soul. 

Did  the  phantom  of  such  a  woman  fiit  about  him  on  his 
ride  ;  true  to  the  reality,  and  obvious  to  him  1 

Yes.  He  saw  her  in  his  mind,  exactly  as  she  was.  She 
bore  him  company  with  her  pride,  resentment,  hatred,  all  as 
plain  to  him  as  her  beauty  ;  with  nothing  plainer  to  him  than 
her  hatred  of  him.  He  saw  Jier  sometimes  haughty  and  repel- 
lant  at  his  side,  and  sometimes  down  among  his  horse's  feet, 


THE  THUNDERBOLT.  CtJ 

fallen  and  in  the  dust.  But  he  always  saw  her  as  sne  was,  with- 
out disguise,  and  watched  her  on  the  dangerous  way  that  she 
was  going. 

And  when  his  ride  was  over,  and  he  was  newly  dressed,  and 
came  into  the  light  of  her  bright  room  with  his  bent  head,  soft 
voice,  and  soothing  smile,  he  saw  her  yet  as  plainly.  He  even 
tuspected  the  mystery  of  the  gloved  hand,  and  held  it  all  the 
longer  in  his  own  for  that  suspicion.  Upon  the  dangerous  way 
Shat  she  was  going,  he  was  still ;  and  not  a  footprint  did  she 
nark  upon  it,  but  he  set  his  own  there,  straight. 


CHAPTER  XLVII. 


THE     THUNDERBOLX 


The  barrier  between  Mr.  Dombey  and  his  wife  was  not 
weakened  by  time.  Ill-assorted  couple,  unhappy  in  themselves 
nnd  in  each  other,  bound  together  by  no  tie  but  the  manacle 
that  joined  their  fettered  hands,  and  straining  that  so  harshly, 
in  their  shrinking  asunder,  that  it  wore  and  chafed  to  the  bone. 
Time,  consoler  of  affliction  and  softener  of  anger,  could  do 
nothing  to  help  them.  Their  pride,  however  different  in  kind 
and  object,  was  equal  in  degree  ;  and,  in  their  flinty  opposition, 
struck  out  lire  between  them  which  might  smoulder  or  might 
blaze,  as  circumstances  were,  but  burned  up  everything  within 
their  mutual  reach,  and  made  their  marriage  way  a  road  of 
ashes. 

Let  us  be  just  to  him  :  In  the  monstrous  delusion  of  his  life, 
swelling  with  every  grain  of  sand  that  shifted  in  its  glass,  he 
urged  her  on,  he  little  thought  to  what,  or  considered  how  ;  but 
still  his  feeling  towards  her,  such  as  it  was,  remained  as  at  first. 
She  had  the  grand  demerit  of  unaccountably  putting  herself  in 
opposition  to  the  recognition  of  his  vast  importance,  and  to  the 
acknowledgment  of  her  complete  submission  to  it,  and  so  far  it 
was  necessary  to  correct  and  reduce  her ;  but  otherwise  he  still 
considered  her,  in  his  cold  way,  a  lady  capable  of  doing  honor, 
if  she  would,  to  his  choice  and  name,  and  of  reflecting  credit  on 
his  proprietorship. 

Now,  she,  with  all  her  might  of  passionate  and  proud  re 
sentment,  bent  her  dark  glance  from  day  to  day,  and  hour  to 
hour — from  that  night  in  her  own  chamber,  when  she  had  sat 


(i ,  6  i>OAiBE  V  AND  SO^r. 

gazing  at  llie  shadows  on  il)c  wall,  tu  tlie  {leeptrnii;Iif  tabicotlri 
ing — upon  one  figure  directing  a  crowd  of  humiliations  and  ex- 
asperations against  her ;  and  that  figure,  still  her  husband's. 

Was  Mr.  Dombey's  master-vice,  that  ruled  him  so  inex- 
orably, an  unnatural  characteristic?  It  might  be  worth  while, 
sometimes,  to  inquire  what  Nature  is,  and  how  men  work  to 
change  her,  and  whether,  in  the  enforced  distortions  so  pro- 
duced, it  is  not  natural  to  be  unnatural.  Coop  any  son  or 
daughter  of  our  mighty  mother  within  a  narrow  range,  and  bind 
the  prisoner  to  one  idea,  and  foster  it  by  servile  worship  of  it 
on  the  part  of  the  few  timid  or  designing  people  standing  round, 
and  what  is  nature  to  the  willing  captive  who  has  never  risen  up 
upon  the  wings  of  a  free  mind — drooping  and  useless  soon — to 
see  her  in  her  comprehensive  truth  ! 

Alas  I  are  there  so  few  things  in  the  world,  about  us,  most 
unnatural,  and  yet  most  natural  in  being  so  !  Hear  the  magis- 
trate or  judge  admonish  the  unnatural  outcasts  of  society  ;  un- 
natural in  brutal  habits,  unnatural  in  want  of  decency,  un- 
natural in  losing  and  confounding  all  distinctions  betweeri  good 
and  evil  ;  unnatural  in  ignorance,  in  vice,  in  recklessness,  in 
contumacy,  in  mind,  in  looks,  in  everything.  But  follow  the 
good  clergyman  or  doctor,  who,  with  his  life  imperilled  at  every 
breath  he  draws,  goes  down  into  their  dens,  lying  within  the 
echoes  of  our  carriage  wheels  and  daily  tread  upon  the  pavement 
stones.  Look  round  upon  the  world  of  odious  sights — millions 
of  immortal  creatures  have  no  other  world  on  earth — at  the 
lightest  mention  of  which  humanity  revolts,  and  dainty  delicacy 
living  in  the  next  street,  stops  her  ears,  and  lisps,  "1  don't  be- 
lieve it !  "  Breathe  the  polluted  air,  foul  with  every  impurity 
that  is  poisonous  to  health  and  life  ;  and  have  every  sense,  con- 
ferred upon  our  race  for  its  delight  and  happiness,  offended, 
sickened  and  disgusted,  and  made  a  channel  by  which  misery 
and  death  alone  can  enter.  Vainly  attempt  to  think  of  any 
simple  plant,  or  flower,  or  wholesome  weed,  that,  set  in  this 
fatid  bed,  could  have  its  natural  growth,  or  put  its  little  leaves 
off  to  the  sun  as  God  designed  it.  And  then,  calling  up  some 
ghastly  child,  with  stunted  form  and  wicked  face,  hold  forth  on 
its  unnatural  sinfulness,  and  lament  its  being,  so  early,  far  away 
from  Heaven — but  think  a  little  of  its  having  been  conceived, 
and  born  and  bred,  in  Hell  ! 

Those  who  study  the  physical  sciences,  and  bring  them  to 
bear  upon  the  health  of  Man,  tell  us  that  if  the  noxious 
particles  that  rise  from  vitiated  air  were  palpable  to  the  sight, 
,we  should  see  them  lewering  in  a  dense  black  cloud  above  such 


THE  THUNDERBOLT.  617 

haunts,  and  rolling  slowly  on  to  corrupt  the  better  portions  of  a 
town.  But  if  the  moral  pestilence  that  rises  with  them,  and  in 
ihe  eternal  laws  of  outraged  Nature,  is  inseparable  from  them, 
could  be  made  discernible  too,  how  terrible  the  revelation! 
Then  should  we  see  depravity,  impiety,  drunkenness,  theft,  mur- 
der, and  a  long  train  of  nameless  sins  against  the  natural  affec- 
tions and  repulsions  of  mankind,  overhanging  the  devoted 
spots,  and  creeping  on,  to  blight  the  innocent  and  spread  con- 
tagion among  the  pure.  Then  should  we  see  how  the  same 
poisoned  fountains  that  flow  into  our  hospitals  and  lazar-houses, 
inundate  the  jails,  and  make  the  convict-ships  swim  deep,  and 
roll  across  the  seas,  and  overrun  vast  continents  with  crime. 
Then  should  we  stand  appalled  to  know,  that  where  we  gene- 
rate disease  to  strike  our  children  down  and  entail  itself  on  un- 
born generations,  there  also  we  breed,  by  the  same  certain  pro- 
cess, infancy,  that  knows  no  innocence,  youth  without  modesty 
or  shame,  maturity  that  is  mature  in  nothing  but  in  suffering 
and  guilt,  blasted  old  age  that  is  a  scandal  on  the  form  we 
bear.  Unnatural  humanity  !  When  we  shall  gather  grapes 
from  thorns,  and  figs  from  thistles  ;  when  fields  of  grain  shall 
spring  up  from  the  offal  in  the  by-ways  of  our  wicked  cities, 
and  roses  bloom  in  the  fat  churchyards  that  they  cherish  ;  then 
we  may  look  for  natural  humanity  and  find  it  growing  from  such 
seed. 

Oh  for  a  good  spirit  who  would  take  the  house  tops  off, 
with  a  more  potent  and  benignant  hand  than  the  lame  demon 
in  the  tale,  and  show  a  Christian  people  what  dark  shapes 
issue  from  amidst  their  homes,  to  swell  the  retinue  of  the  De- 
stroying Angel  as  he  moves  forth  among  them  !  For  only  one 
night's  view  of  the  pale  phantoms  rising  from  the  scenes  of  our 
too-long  neglect ;  and  from  the  thick  and  sullen  air  where  Vice 
and  Fever  propagate  together,  raining  the  tremendous  social 
retributions  which  are  ever  pouring  down,  and  ever  coming 
thicker  !  Bright  and  blest  the  morning  that  should  rise  on 
such  a  night :  for  men,  delayed  no  more  by  stumbling-blocks  of 
their  own  making,  which  are  but  specks  of  dust  upon  the  path 
between  them  and  eternity,  would  then  apply  themselves,  like 
creatures  of  one  common  origin,  owing  one  duty  to  the  Father 
of  one  family,  and  tending  to  one  common  end,  to  make  the 
world  a  better  place  ! 

Not  the  less  bright  and  blest  would  that  day  be  for  rousing 
some  who  never  have  looked  out  upori  the  world  of  human  life 
around  them,  to  a  knowledge  of  their  own  relation  to  it,  and 
tor  making  them  acquainted  with  a  perversion  of  nature  in  their 


6 1 8  DOMBE  Y  A  ND  SON. 

own  contracted  sympathies  and  estimates ;  as  great,  and  yet  as 
natural  in  its  development  when  once  begun,  as  tke  lowest 
degradation  known. 

But  no  such  day  had  ever  dawned  on  Mr.  Dombey,  or  his 
wife  ;  and  the  course  of  each  was  taken. 

Through  six  months  that  ensued  upon  his  accident,  they 
held  the  same  relations  one  towards  the  other.  A  marble  rock 
could  not  have  stood  more  obdurately  in  his  way  than  she  ; 
and  no  chilled  spring,  lying  uncheered  by  any  ray  of  light  in 
the  depths  of  a  deep  cave,  could  be  more  sullen  or  more  cold 
than  he. 

The  hope  that  had  fluttered  within  her  when  the  promise  of 
her  new  home  dawned,  was  quite  gone  from  the  heart  of  Flor- 
ence now.  I'hat  home  was  nearly  two  years  old  ;  and  even 
the  patient  trust  that  was  m  her,  could  not  survive  the  daily 
blight  of  such  experience.  If  she  had  any  lingering  fancy  in 
the  nature  of  hope  left,  that  Edith  and  her  father  might  be 
happier  together,  in  some  distant  time,  she  had  none,  now,  that 
her  father  would  ever  love  her.  The  little  interval  in  which 
she  had  imagined  that  she  saw  some  small  relenting  in  him, 
was  forgotten  in  the  long  remembrance  of  his  coldness  since 
and  before,  or  only  remembered  as  a  sorrowful  delusion. 

Florence  loved  him  still,  but,  by  degrees,  had  come  to  love 
him  rather  as  some  dear  one  who  had  been,  or  who  might  have 
been,  than  as  the  hard  reality  before  her  eyes.  Something  of 
the  softened  sadness  with  which  she  loved  the  memory  of  little 
Paul,  or  of  her  mother,  seemed  to  enter  now  into  her  thoughts 
of  him,  and  to  make  them,  as  it  were,  a  dear  remembrance. 
Whether  it  was  that  he  was  dead  to  her,  and  that  partly  for  this 
reason,  partly  for  his  share  in  those  old  objects  of  her  affection, 
and  partly  for  the  long  association  of  him  with  hopes  that  were 
withered  and  tendernesses  he  had  frozen,  she  could  not  have 
told  ;  but  the  father  whom  she  loved  began  to  be  a  vague  and 
dreamy  idea  to  her  :  hardly  more  substantially  connected  with 
her  real  life,  than  the  image  she  would  sometimes  conjure  up, 
of  her  dear  brother  yet  alive,  and  growing  to  be  a  man,  who 
would  protect  and  cherish  her. 

The  change,  if  it  may  be  called  one,  had  stolen  on  her  like 
the  change  from  childhood  to  womanhood,  and  had  come  with 
it.  Florence  was  almost  seventeen,  when,  in  her  lonely  mus- 
ings, she  was  conscious  of  these  thoughts. 

She  was  often  alone  -now,  for  the  old  association  between 
her  and  her  mama  was  greatly  changed.  At  the  time  of  her 
father's  accident,  and  when  he  was  l}ing  in  his  room  down 


THE  THUNDERBOLT.  gjA 

Stairs,  Florence  had  first  observed  that  Edit'h  avoided  her. 
Wounded  and  shocked,  and  yet  unable  to  reconcile  this  with 
her  affection  when  they  did  meet,  she  sought  her  in  her  own 
room  at  night,  once  more. 

"  Mama,"  said  Florence,  stealing  softly  to  her  side,  "  have 
I  offended  you  ?  " 

Edith  answered  "  No." 

"f  must  have  done  something,"  said  Florence.  "Tell  me 
what  it  is.  You  have  changed  your  manner  to  me,  dear  Mama. 
I  cannot  say  how  instantly  I  feel  the  least  change ;  for  I  love 
you  with  my  whole  heart." 

"As  I  do  you,"  said  Edith.  "  Ah,  Florence,  believe  me 
never  more  than  now  !  " 

"  Why  do  you  go  away  from  me  so  often,  and  keep  away  .'' " 
asked  Florence.  "  And  why  do  you  sometimes  look  so  strange- 
ly on  me,  dear  Mama  ?     You  do  so,  do  you  not .''  " 

Edith  signified  assent  with  her  dark  eyes. 

"Why.''"  returned  Florence  imploringly.  "Tell  me  why, 
that  r  may  know  how  to  please  you  better ;  and  tell  me  this 
shall  not  be  so  any  more." 

"My  Florence,"  answered  Edith,  taking  the  hand  that  em- 
braced her  neck,  and  looking  into  the  eyes  that  looked  into 
hers  so  lovingly,  as  Florence  knelt  upon  the  ground  before  her ; 
"why  it  is,  I  cannot  tell  you.  It  is  neither  for  me  to  say,  nor 
you  to  hear  ;  but  that  it  is,  and  that  it  must  be,  I  know. 
Should  I  do  it  if  I  did  not  ? " 

"  Are  we  to  be  estranged.  Mama  ?  "  asked  Florence,  gazing 
at  her  like  one  frightened. 

Edith's  silent  lips  formed  "Yes." 

Florence  looked  at  her  with  increasing  fear  and  wonder, 
until  she  could  see  her  no  more  through  the  blinding  tears  that 
ran  down  her  face. 

"  Florence  !  my  life  !  "  said  Edith,  hurriedly,  "  listen  to  me. 
I  cannot  bear  to  see  this  grief.  Be  calmer.  You  see  that  I 
am  composed,  and  is  it  nothing  to  me  1 " 

She  resumed  her  steady  voice  and  manner  as  she  said  the 
latter  words,  and  added  presently  : 

"  Not  wholly  estranged.  Partially  :  and  only  that,  in  ap- 
pearance, Florence,  for  in  my  own  breast  I  am  still  the  same 
to  you,  and  ever  will  be.  But  what  I  do  is  not  done  for  my. 
self." 

"Is  it  for  me,  Mama  ?  "  asked  Florence. 

"  It  is  enongh,"  said  Edith,  after  a  pause,  "  to  know  what  it 
is  j  why,  matters  little.     Dear  Florence,  it  is  better — it  is  ne- 


62  0  DOM  BE  Y  AND  SOX. 

cessary — it  must  be — that  our  association  should  be  less  fre 
quent.  The  confidence  there  has  been  between  us  must  be 
broken  off." 

"  When  ?  "  cried  Florence.     "  Oh,  Mama,  when  ?  " 

"  Now,"  said  Edith. 

"  For  all  time  to  come.?  "  asked  Florence. 

"  I  do  not  say  that,"  answered  Edith.  "  I  do  not  know 
that.  Nor  will  I  say  that  companionship  between  us  is,  at  the 
best,  an  ill-assorted  and  unholy  union,  of  which  I  mii^ht  have 
known  no  good  could  come.  My  way  here  has  been  through 
paths  that  you  will  never  tread,  and  my  way  henceforth  may 
lie — God  knows — I  do  not  see  it — " 

Her  voice  died  away  in  silence ;  and  she  sat,  looking  at 
Florence,  and  almost  shrinking  from  her,  with  the  same  strange 
dread  and  wild  avoidance  that  Florence  had  noticed  once  be- 
fore. The  same  dark  pride  and  rage  succeeded,  sweeping  over 
her  form  and  features  like  an  angry  cord  across  the  strings  of 
a  wild  harp.  But  no  softness  or  humility  ensued  on  that. 
She  did  not  lay  her  head  down  now,  and  weep,  and  say  that  she 
had  no  hope  but  in  Florence.  She  held  it  up  as  if  she  were  a 
beautiful  Medusa,  looking  on  him,  face  to  face,  to  strike  him 
dead.  Yes,  and  she  would  have  done  it,  if  she  had  had  the 
charm. 

"  Mama,"  said  Florence,  anxiously,  "  there  is  a  change  in 
you,  in  more  than  what  you  say  to  me,  which  alarms  me.  I.,et 
me  stay  with  you  a  little." 

"  No,"  said  Edith,  "  no,  dearest.  I  am  best  left  alone  now, 
and  I  do  best  to  keep  apart  from  you,  of  all  else.  Ask  me  no 
questions,  but  believe  that  what  1  am  when  I  seem  fickle  or 
capricious  to  you,  I  am  not  of  my  own  will,  or  for  myself.  Be- 
lieve, though  we  are  stranger  to  each  other  than  we  have  been, 
that  I  am  unchanged  to  you  within.  Forgive  me  for  having 
ever  darkened  your  dark  home — I  am  a  shadow  on  it,  I  know 
^well — and  let  us  never  speak  of  this  again." 

"  Mama,"  sobbed  Florence,  "  we  are  not  to  part  ?  " 

"  We  do  this  that  we  may  not  part,"  said  Edith.  "  Ask  no 
more.  Go,  Florence  !  My  love  and  my  remorse  go  with 
you  !  " 

She  embraced  her,  and  dismissed  her ;  and  as  Florence 
passed  out  of  her  room,  Edith  looked  on  the  retiring  figure,  as 
if  her  good  angel  went  out  in  that  form,  and  left  her  to  the 
haughty  and  indignant  passions  that  now  claimed  her  for  their 
own,  and  set  their  seal  upon  her  brow. 

From  that  hour,  Florence  and  she  were,  as   they  had   beeB 


THE  THUNDERBOLT.  ^% 

no  more.  For  days  togetlier,  they  would  seldom  meet,  except 
at  table,  and  when  Mr.  Dombey  was  present.  Then  Edith, 
imperious,  inflexible,  and  silent,  never  looked  at  her.  When- 
ever Mr.  Carker  was  of  the  party,  as  he  often  was,  during  the 
progress  of  Mr.  Dombey's  recovery,  and  afterwards,  Edith  held 
herself  more  removed  from  her,  and  was  more  distant  towards 
her,  than  at  other  times.  Yet  she  and  Florence  never  encoun- 
tered, when  there  was  no  one  by,  but  she  would  embrace  her 
as  affectionately  as  of  old,  though  not  with  the  same  relenting 
of  her  proud  asjDect ;  and  often,  when  she  had  been  out  late, 
she  would  steal  up  to  Florence's  room,  as  she  had  been  used 
to  do,  in  the  dark,  and  whisper  "  Good-Night,"  on  her  pillow. 
When  unconscious,  in  her  slumber,  of  such  visits,  Florence 
would  sometimes  awake,  as  from  a  dream  of  those  words,  softly 
spoken,  and  would  seem  to  feel  the  touch  of  lips  upon  her  face. 
But  less  and  less  often  as  the  months  went  on. 

And  now  the  void  in  Plorence's  own  heart  began  again, 
indeed,  to  make  a  solitude  around  her.  As  the  image  of  the 
father  whom  she  loved  had  insensibly  become  a  mere  abstrac- 
tion, so  Edith,  following  the  fate  of  all  the  rest  about  whom 
her  affections  had  entwined  themselves,  was  fleeting,  fading, 
growing  paler  in  the  distance,  every  day.  Little  by  little,  she 
receded  from  Florence,  like  the  retiring  ghost  of  what  she  had 
been ;  little  by  little,  the  chasm  between  them  widened  and 
seemed  deeper ;  little  by  little,  all  the  power  of  earnestness 
and  tenderness  she  had  shown,  was  frozen  up  in  the  bold, 
angry  hardihood  with  which  she  stood,  upon  the  brink  of  a 
deep  precipice  unseen  by  Florence,  daring  to  look  down. 

There  was  but  one  consideration  to  set  against  the  heavy 
loss  of  Edith,  and  though  it  was  slight  comfort  to  her  burdened 
heart,  she  tried  to  think  it  some  relief.  No  longer  divided  be- 
tween her  affection  and  duty  to  the  two,  Florence  could  love 
both  and  do  no  injustice  to  either.  As  shadows  of  her  fond 
imagination,  she  could  give  them  equal  place  in  her  own  bosom, 
and  wrong  them  with  no  doubts. 

So  she  tried  to  do.  At  times,  and  often  too,  wondering 
speculations  on  the  cause  of  this  change  in  Edith  would  ob- 
trude themselves  upon  her  mind  and  frighten  her  ;  but  in  the 
calm  of  its  abandonment  once  more  to  silent  grief  and  loneli- 
ness, it  was  not  a  curious  mind.  Florence  had  only  to  re- 
member that  her  star  of  promise  was  clouded  in  the  general 
gloom  that  hung  upon  the  house,  and  to  weep  and  be  resigned. 

Thus  living,  in  a  dream  wherein  tlie  overflowing  love  of  her 
young  heart  expended  itself  on  airy  forms,  and  in  a   real  world 


6ai  DOM  HEY  AND  SOM 

where  she  had  ex-perienced  little  but  the  rolling  back  of  that 
strong  tide  upon  itself,  Florence  grew  to  be  seventeen.  Timid 
and  retiring  as  her  solitary  life  had  made  her,  it  had  not  em- 
bittered her  sweet  temper,  or  her  earnest  nature.  A  chiVJ  in 
innocent  simjDiicity  ;  a  woman  in  her  modest  self-reliance,  and 
her  deep  intensity  of  feeling  ;  both  child  and  woman  seemed 
at  once  expressed  in  her  fair  face  and  fragile  delicacy  of  shape, 
and  gracefully  to  mingle  there  ; — as  if  the  spring  should  be  un- 
willing to  depart  when  summer  came,  and  sought  to  blend  the 
earlier  beauties  of  the  flowers  with  their  bloom.  But  in  her 
thrilling  voice,  in  her  calm  eyes,  sometimes  in  a  strange  ethe- 
real light  that  seemed  to  rest  upon  her  head,  and  always  in  a 
certain  pensive  air  upon  her  beauty,  there  was  an  expression, 
such  as  had  been  seen  in  the  dead  boy  ;  and  the  council  in  the 
Servants'  Hall  whispered  so  among  themselves,  and  shook 
their  heads,  and  ate  and  drank  the  more,  in  a  closer  bond  of 
good-fellowship. 

This  observant  body  had  plenty  to  say  of  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Dombey,  and  of  Mr.  Carker,  who  appeared  to  be  a  mediator 
between  them,  and  v/ho  came  and  went  as  if  he  were  trying  to 
make  peace,  but  never  could.  They  all  deplored  the  uncom- 
fortable state  of  affairs,  and  all  agreed  that  Mrs.  Pipchin 
(whose  unpopularity  was  not  to  be  surpassed)  had  some  hand 
in  it ;  but,  upon  the  whole,  it  was  agreeable  to  have  so  good  a 
subject  for  a  rallying  point,  and  they  made  a  great  deal  of  it, 
and  enjoyed  themselves  very  much. 

The  general  visitors  who  came  to  the  house,  and  those 
among  whom  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Dombey  visited,  thought  it  a  pretty 
equal  match,  as  to  haughtiness,  at  all  events,  and  thought  noth* 
ing  more  about  it.  The  young  lady  with  the  back  did  not  ap- 
pear for  some  time  after  Mrs.  Skewton's  death ;  observing  to 
some  particular  friends,  with  her  usual  engaging  little  scream, 
that  she  couldn't  separate  the  family  from  a  notion  of  tomb- 
stones, and  horrors  of  that  sort  ;  but  when  she  did  come,  she 
saw  nothing  wrong,  except  Mr.  Dombey's  wearing  a  bunch  of 
gold  seals  to  his  watch,  which  shocked  her  very  much,  as  an 
exploded  superstition.  This  youthful  fascinator  considered  a 
daughter-in-law  objectionable  in  principle  ;  otherwise,  she  had 
nothing  to  say  against  Florence,  but  that  she  sadly  wanted 
"  style  " — which  might  mean  back,  perhaps.  Many,  who  only 
came  to  the  house  on  state  occasions,  hardly  knew  who 
Florence  was,  and  said,  going  home,  "Indeed,  was  that  Miss 
Dombey,  in  the  corner  ?  Very  pretty,  but  a  little  delicate  and 
thoughtful  in  appearance  1  " 


THE  THUNDERBOLT  62 j 

None  the  less  so,  certainly,  for  her  life  of  the  last  six 
months,  Florence  took  her  seat  at  the  dinner-table,  on  the  day 
before  the  second  anniversary'  of  her  father's  marriage  to  Edith 
(Mrs.  Skewton  had  been  lying  stricken  with  paralysis  when  the 
first  came  round),  with  an  uneasiness,  amounting  to  dread. 
She  had  no  other  warrant  for  it,  than  the  occasion,  the  ex 
pression  of  her  father's  face,  in  the  hasty  glance  she  caugh 
of  it,  and  the  presence  of  Mr.  Carker,  which  always  m 
pleasant  to  her,  was  more  so  on  this  day,  than  she  had  eve 
felt  it  before, 

Edith  was  richly  dressed,  for  she  and  Mr.  Dombey  were 
engaged  in  the  evening  to  some  large  assembly,  and  the  din- 
ner-hour that  day  was  late.  She  did  not  appear  until  they  were 
seated  at  table,  when  Mr.  Carker  rose  and  led  her  to  her  chair. 
Beautiful  and  lustrous  as  she  was,  there  was  that  in  her  face 
and  air  which  seemed  to  separate  her  hopelessly  from  Florence, 
and  from  every  one,  for  ever  more.  And  yet,  for  an  instant, 
Florence  saw  a  beam  of  kindness  in  her  eyes,  when  they  were 
turned  on  her,  that  made  the  distance  to  which  she  had  with- 
drawn herself,  a  greater  cause  of  sorrow  and  regret  than  ever. 

There  was  very  little  said  at  dinner.  Florence  heard  her 
father  speak  to  Mr,  Carker  sometimes  on  business  matters,  and 
heard  him  softly  reply,  but  she  paid  little  attention  to  what 
they  said,  and  only  wished  the  dinner  at  an  end.  When  the 
dessert  was  placed  upon  the  table,  and  they  were  left  alone, 
with  no  servant  in  attendance,  Mr.  Dombey,  who  had  been 
several  times  clearing  his  throat  in  a  manner  that  augured  no 
good,  said : 

"  Mrs.  Dombey,  you  know,  I  suppose,  that  I  have  instructed 
the  housekeeper  that  there  will  be  some  company  to  dinner 
here  to-morrow." 

"  I  do  not  dine  at  home,"  she  answered. 

"  Not  a  large  party,"  pursued  Mr.  Dombey,  with  an  in- 
different assumption  of  not  having  heard  her  ;  "  merely  some 
twelve  or  fourteen.  My  sister.  Major  Bagstock,  and  some 
others  whom  you  know  but  slightly." 

"  I  do  not  dine  at  home,"  she  repeated. 

"  However  doubtful  reason  I  may  have,  Mrs.  Dombey," 
said  Mr.  Dombey,  still  going  majestically  on,  as  if  she  had  not 
spoken,  "  to  hold  the  occasion  in  very  pleasant  remembrance 
just  now,  there  are  appearances  in  these  things  which  must  be 
maintained  before  the  world.  If  you  have  no  respect  for  yoxtf- 
self,  Mrs.  Dombey — " 

"  I  have  none,"  she  said. 


ga^  DOM  BE  Y  AXD  SON: 

"  Madam,"  cried  Mr.  Dombey,  striking  his  hand  upon  tlifi 
table,  "  hear  me  if  you  please.  1  say,  if  you  have  no  respect 
for  yourself — " 

"  And  /say  I  have  none,"  she  answered. 

He  looked  at  her ;  but  the  face  she  showed  him  in  return 
would  not  have  changed,  if  death  itself  had  looked. 

"Carker,"'  said  Mr.  Dombey,  turning  more  quietly  to  that 
gentleman,  "  as  you  have  been  my  medium  of  communication, 
with  Mrs.  Dombey  on  former  occasions,  and  as  I  choose  to 
preserve  the  decencies  of  life,  so  far  as  I  am  individually  con- 
cerned, I  will  trouble  you  to  have  the  goodness  to  inform  Mrs. 
Dombey  that  if  she  has  no  respect  for  herself,  I  have  some 
respect  for  w_>'self,  and  therefore  insist  on  my  arrangements 
for  tomorrow." 

"Tell  your  sovereign  master,  Sir,"  said  Edith,  "that  I  will 
take  leave  to  speak  to  him  on  this  subject  by  and  by,  and  that 
I  will  speak  to  him  alone." 

"  Mr.  Carker,  Madam,"  said  her  husband,  "  being  in  pos- 
session of  the  reason  which  obliges  me  to  refuse  you  that 
privilege,  shall  be  absolved  from  the  delivery  of  any  such  mes- 
sage." He  saw  her  eyes  move,  while  he  spoke,  and  followed 
them  with  his  own. 

"Your  daughter  is  present,  Sir,"  said  Edith. 

"  My  daughter  will  remain  present,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

Florence,  who  had  risen,  sat  down  again,  hiding  her  face  in 
hei  hands,  and  trembling. 

"  My  daughter.  Madam  " — began  Mr.  Dombey. 

But  Edith  stopped  him,  in  a  voice  which,  although  not 
raised  in  the  least,  was  so  clear,  emphatic,  and  distinct,  that  it 
might  have  been  heard  in  a  whirlwind. 

"  I  tell  you  I  will  speak  to  you  alone,"  she  said.  "  If  you 
are  not  mad,  heed  what  I  say." 

"I  have  authority  to  speak  to  you.  Madam,"  returned  her 
husband,  "  when  and  where  I  please  ;  and  it  is  my  pleasure  to 
speak  here  and  now." 

She  rose  up  as  if  to  leave  the  room  ;  but  sat  down  again, 
and  looking  at  him  with  all  outward  composure  said,  in  the 
same  voice  : 

"  You  shall !  " 

"  I  must  tell  you  first,  that  there  is  a  threatening  appear- 
ance in  your  manner.  Madam,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "which 
does  not  become  you." 

She  laughed.  The  shaken  diamonds  in  her  hair  started 
^nd  trembled.    There  jire  fables  of  precious  stones  that  would 


THE   THUNDERBOLT.  625 

turn  pale,  their  wearer  being  in  danger.  Had  these  been  such, 
their  imprisoned  rays  of  light  would  have  taken  flight  that 
moment,  and  they  would  have  been  as  dull  as  lead. 

Carker  listened,  with  his  eyes  cast  down. 

"  As  to  my  daughter.  Madam,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  resum- 
ing the  thread  of  his  discourse,  "  it  is  by  no  means  inconsistent 
with  her  duty  to  me,  that  she  should  know  what  conduct  to 
avoid.  At  present  you  are  a  very  strong  example  to  her  of 
this  kind,  and  I  hope  she  may  profit  by  it." 

"  I  would  not  stop  you  now,"  returned  his  wife,  immov- 
able in  eye,  and  voice,  and  attitude  ;  "  I  would  not  rise  and  go 
away,  and  save  you  the  utterance  of  one  word,  if  the  room  were 
burning." 

Mr.  Dombey  moved  his  head,  as  if  in  a  sarcastic  acknowK 
edgment  of  the  attention,  and  resumed.  But  not  with  so 
much  self-possession  as  before ;  for  Edith's  quick  uneasiness 
in  reference  to  Florence,  and  Edith's  indifference  to  him  and 
his  censure,  chafed  and  galled  him  like  a  stiffening  wound. 

"  Mrs.  Dombey,"  said  he,  "  it  may  not  be  inconsistent  with 
my  daughter's  improvement  to  know  how  very  much  to  be 
lamented,  and  how  necessary  to  be  corrected,  a  stubborn  dis- 
position is,  especially  when  it  is  indulged  in — unthankfully  in- 
dulged in,  I  will  add — after  the  gratification  of  ambition  and 
interest.  Both  of  which,  I  believe,  had  some  share  in  inducing 
you  to  occupy  your  present  station  at  this  board." 

"  No  !  I  would  not  rise,  and  go  away,  and  save  you  the 
utterance  of  one  word,"  she  repeated,  exactly  as  before,  "  if  the 
room  were  burning." 

"  It  may  be  natural  enough,  Mrs.  Dombey,"  he  pursued, 
"  that  you  should  be  uneasy  in  the  presence  of  any  auditors  of 
these  disagreeable  truths  ;  though  why — "  he  could  not  hide 
his  real  feelings  here,  or  keep  his  eyes  from  glancing  gloomily 
at  Florence — "  why  any  one  can  give  them  greater  force  and 
point  than  myself,  whom  they  so  nearly  concern,  I  do  not  pre- 
tend to  understand.  It  may  be  natural  enough  that  you  should 
object  to  hear,  in  anybody's  presence,  that  there  is  a  rebellious 
principle  within  you  which  you  cannot  curb  too  soon  ;  which 
you  must  curb,  Mrs.  Dombey  ;  and  which,  I  regret  to  say,  I 
remember  to  have  seen  manifested — with  some  doubt  and  dis- 
pleasure, on  more  than  one  occasion  before  our  marriage — 
towards  your  deceased  mother.  But  you  have  the  remedy  in 
your  own  hands.  I  by  no  means  forgot,  when  I  began,  that 
my  daughter  was  present,  Mrs.  Dombey.  I  beg  you  will  not 
forget,  to-morrow,  that  there  are  several  persons  present  and 


/>-»6  DOMBEY  AND  SON 

that,  with  some  regard  to  appearances,  you  will  receive  yo'jl 
company  in  a  becoming  mr.nner." 

•'  So  it  is  not  enough,"  said  Edith,  "  that  you  know  what 
has  passed  between  yourself  and  me  ;  it  is  not  enough  that  you 
"an  look  here,"  pointing  at  Carker,  who  still  listened,  with  his 
eyes  cast  down,  "  and  be  reminded  of  the  affronts  you  have 
put  upon  me  ;  it  is  not  enough  that  you  can  look  here,"  point- 
ing to  Florence  with  a  hand  that  slightly  trembled  for  the  first 
and  only  time,  "  and  think  of  what  you  have  done,  and  of  the 
ingenious  agon)-,  daily,  hourly,  constant,  you  have  made  me 
feel  in  doing  it ;  it  is  not  enough  that  this  day,  of  all  others  in 
the  year,  is  memorable  to  me  for  a  struggle  (well-deserved,  but 
not  conceivable  by  such  as  you)  in  which  I  wish  1  had  died  ! 
You  add  to  all  this,  do  you,  the  last  crowning  meanness  of 
making//^/-  a  witness  of  the  depth  to  which  I  have  fallen  ;  when 
you  know  that  you  have  made  me  sacrifice  to  her  peace,  the 
only  gentle  feeling  and  interest  of  my  life,  when  you  know  that 
for  her  sake,  I  would  now  if  I  could — but  I  can  not,  my  soul 
recoils  from  you  too  much — submit  myself  wholly  to  your  will 
and  be  the  meekest  vassal  that  you  have  !  " 

This  was  not  the  way  to  minister  to  Mr.  Dombey's  great- 
ness. The  old  feeling  was  roused  by  what  she  said,  into  a 
stronger  and  fiercer  existence  than  it  had  ever  had.  Again, 
his  neglected  child,  at  this  rough  passage  of  his  life,  put  tortli 
by  even  this  rebellious  woman,  as  powerful  where  he  was  power- 
less, and  everything  where  he  was  nothing ! 

He  turned  on  Plorence,  as  if  it  were  she  who  had  spoken, 
and  bade  her  leave  the  room.  Florence  with  her  covered  face 
obeyed,  trembling  and  weeping  as  she  went. 

"  I  understand.  Madam,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  with  an  angry 
flush  of  triumph,  "  the  spirit  of  opposition  that  turned  3our 
afifections  in  that  channel,  but  they  have  been  met,  Mrs.  Dom- 
bey ;  they  have  been  met,  and  turned  back  !  " 

"  The  worse  for  you  ! "  she  answered,  with  her  voice  and 
manner  still  unchanged.  "Ay!"  for  he  turned  sharply  when 
she  said  so,  "  what  is  the  worse  for  me,  is  twenty  million  times 
the  worse  for  you.     Heed  that,  if  you  heed  nothing  else." 

The  arch  of  diamonds  spanning  her  dark  hair,"fiashed  and 
glittered  like  a  starry  bridge.  There  was  no  warning  in  them, 
or  they  would  have  turned  as  dull  and  dim  as  tarnished  honor. 
Carker  still  sat  and  listened,  with  his  eyes  cast  down. 

"Mrs.  Dombey,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  resuming  as  much  as 
he  could  of  his  arrogant  composure,  *' you  will  not  conciliate 
me,  or  turn  mc  from  7\\\^  purpose,  by  this  course  of  conduct." 


THE  THUNDERBOLT.  g^y 

"  It  is  the  only  true  although  it  is  a  faint  expression  of  what 
is  within  me,"  she  replied.  "  But  if  I  thought  it  would  con- 
ciliate you,  I  would  repress  it,  if  it  were  repressible  by  any  hu- 
man effort.     I  will  do  nothing  that  you  ask." 

"  I  am  not  accustomed  to  ask,  Mrs.  Dombey,"  he  observed; 
"  I  direct." 

"  I  will  hold  no  place  in  your  house  to-morrow,  or  on  any 
recurrence  of  to-morrow.  I  will  be  exhibited  to  no  one,  as  the 
refractory  slave  you  purchased,  such  a  time.  If  I  kept  my 
marriage-day,  I  would  keep  it  as  a  day  of  shame.  Self-respect  I 
appearances  before  the  world  !  what  are  these  to  me  ?  You 
have  done  all  you  can  to  make  them  nothing  to  me,  and  they 
are  nothing," 

"  Carker,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  speaking  with  knitted  brows, 
and  after  a  moment's  consideration,  "  Mrs.  Dombey  is  so  for- 
getful of  herself  and  me  in  all  this,  and  places  me  in  a  position 
so  unsuited  to  my  character,  that  I  must  bring  this  state  of 
matters  to  a  close." 

"  Release  me,  then,"  said  Edith,  immovable  in  voice,  in 
look,  and  bearing,  as  she  had  been  throughout,  "from  th« 
chain  by  which  I  am  bound.     Let  me  go." 

"  Madam  !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  Loose  me.     Set  me  free  !  " 

"  Madam  !  "  he  repeated,  "  Mrs.  Dombey  !  " 

"  Tell  him,"  said  Edith,  addressing  her  proud  face  to  Carker, 
"  that  I  wish  for  a  separation  between  us.  That  there  had 
better  be  one.  That  I  recommend  it  to  him.  Tell  him  it  may 
take  place  on  his  own  terms — his  wealth  is  nothing  to  me — but 
that  it  cannot  be  too  soon." 

"  Good  Heaven,  Mrs.  Dombey  !  "  said  her  husband,  with 
supreme  amazement,  "  do  you  imagine  it  possible  that  I  could 
ever  listen  to  such  a  proposition  ?  Do  you  know  who  I  am. 
Madam  t  Do  you  know  what  I  represent  ?  Did  you  ever  hear 
of  Dombey  and  Son  ?  People  to  say  that  Mr.  Dombey — Mr. 
Dombey  ! — was  separated  from  his  wife  !  Common  people  to 
talk  of  Mr.  Dombey  and  his  domestic  affairs!  Do  you  seri- 
ously think,  Mrs.  Dombey,  that  I  would  permit  my  name  to  be 
handed  about  in  such  connection  ?  Pooh,  pooh.  Madam ! 
Fie  for  shame  !  You're  absurd."  Mr.  Dombey  absolutely 
laughed. 

But  not  as  she  did.  She  had  better  have  been  dead  than 
laugh  as  she  did,  in  reply,  with  her  intent  look  fixed  upon  hira 
He  had  better  have  been  dead,  than  sitting  there,  in  his  maf 
nificence,  to  hear  her.  >- 


628  DGMBP.  r  AjVD  SON. 

"No,  Mrs.  Dombcy,''  he  resumed,  "no  Madam.  There  ii 
no  possibility  of  separation  between  you  and  me,  and  therefore 
1  the  more  advise  you  to  be  awakened  to  a  sense  of  duty.  And, 
Carker,  as  I  was  about  to  say  to  you — " 

Mr.  Carker,  who  had  sat  and  listened  all  this  time,  now 
raised  his  eyes,  in  which  there  was  a  bright  unusual  light. 

— "As  I  was  about  to  say  to  you,"  resumed  Mr.  Dombey, 
"  I  must  beg  you,  now  that  matters  have  come  to  this,  to  in- 
form Mrs.  Dombey,  that  it  is  not  the  rule  of  my  life  to  allow 
myself  to  be  thwarted  by  anybody — anybody,  Carker — or  to 
suffer  anybody  to  be  paraded  as  a  stronger  motive  for  obedi- 
ence in  those  who  owe  obedience  to  me  than  I  am  myself. 
The  mention  that  has  been  made  of  my  daughter,  and  the  use 
that  is  made  of  my  daughter,  in  opposition  to  me,  are  unnatural. 
Whether  my  daughter  is  in  actual  concert  with  Mrs.  Dombey, 
I  do  not  know,  and  do  not  care  ;  but  after  what  Mrs.  Dombey 
has  said  to-day,  and  my  daughter  has  heard  to-day,  I  beg 
you  to  make  known  to  Mrs.  Dombey,  that  if  she  continues  to 
make  this  house  the  scene  of  contention  it  has  become,  I  shall 
consider  my  daughter  responsible  in  some  degree,  on  that 
lady's  own  avowal,  and  shall  visit  her  with  my  severe  displeas- 
ure. Mrs.  Dombey  has  asked  '  whether  it  is  not  enough,'  that 
she  had  done  this  and  that.  You  will  please  to  answer  no,  it 
is  not  enough." 

"  A  moment  !  "  cried  Carker,  interposing,  "  permit  me  ! 
painful  as  my  position  is,  at  the  best,  and  unusually  painful  in 
seeming  to  entertain  a  different  opinion  from  you,"'  addressing 
Mr.  Dombey,  "  I  must  ask,  had  you  not  better  re-consider  the 
question  of  a  separation  ?  I  know  how  incompatible  it  appears 
with  your  high  public  position,  and  I  know  how  determined  you 
are  when  you  give  Mrs.  Dombey  to  understand" — tlie  light  in 
his  eyes  fell  upon  her  as  he  separated  his  words  each  from 
each,  with  the  distinctness  of  so  many  bells — "  that  nothing 
but  death  can  ever  part  you.  Nothing  else.  But  when  you 
consider  that  Mrs.  Dombey,  by  living  in  this  house,  and  mak- 
ing it  as  you  have  said,  a  scene  of  contention,  not  only  as  her 
part  in  that  contention,  but  compromises  Miss  Dombey  every 
day  (for  I  know  how  determined  you  are),  will  you  not  re- 
lieve her  from  a  continual  irritation  of  spirit,  and  a  contin- 
ual sense  of  being  unjust  to  anotlier,  almost  intolerable  ?  Does 
this  not  seem  like — I  do  not  say  it  is — sacrificing  Mrs.  Dom- 
bey to  the  preservation  of  your  pre-eminent  and  unassailable 
position  r' 

Again  the  light  in  his  eves  fell  upon  her,  as  she  stood  look- 


THE  'rnUiVDEkBOLT.  62*) 

ing  at  her  Iiusband  :  now  with  an  extraordinary  and  awful  smile 
upon  her  face. 

"Carker,"  returned  Mr.  Dombey,  with  a  supercihous  frown, 
and  in  a  tone  that  was  intended  to  be  final,  "you  mistake  your 
position  in  offering  advice  to  nie  on  such  a  point,  and  you  mis- 
take me  (I  am  surprised  to  find)  in  the  character  of  your  advice. 
I  have  no  more  to  say." 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Carker,  with  an  unusual  and  indefinable 
taunt  in  his  air,  '■'■  yon  mistook  my  position,  when  you  honored 
me  with  the  negotiations  in  which  f  have  been  engaged  here  " 
— with  a  motion  of  his  hand  towards  Mrs.  Dombey. 

"  Not  at  all,  Sir,  not  at  all,"  returned  the  other  haughtily. 
"You  were  employed " 

"  Being  an  inferior  person,  for  the  humiliation  of  Mrs.  Dom- 
bey. I  forgot.  Oh,  yes,  it  was  expressly  understood  !  "  said 
Carker.     "  I  beg  your  pardon  !  " 

As  he  bent  his  head  to  Mr.  Dombey,  with  an  air  of  defer- 
ence that  accorded  ill  with  his  words,  though  they  were  humbly 
spoken,  he  moved  it  round  towards  her,  and  kept  his  watching 
eyes  that  way. 

She  had  better  have  turned  hideous  and  dropped  dead, 
than  have  stood  up  with  such  a  smile  upon  her  face,  in  such  a 
fallen  spirit's  majesty  of  scorn  and  beauty.  She  lifted  het 
hand  to  the  tiara  of  l>right  jewels  radiant  on  her  head,  and, 
plucking  it  off  with  a  force  that  dragged  and  strained  her  rich 
black  hair  with  heedless  cruelty,  and  brought  it  tumbling  wildly 
on  her  shoulders,  cast  the  gems  upon  the  ground.  From  each 
arm,  she  unclasped  a  diamond  bracelet,  flung  it  down,  and  trod 
upon  the  glittering  heap.  Without  a  word,  without  a  shadow 
on  the  fire  of  her  bright  eye,  without  abatement  of  her  awful 
smile,  she  looked  on  Mr.  Dombey  to  the  last,  in  moving  to  the 
door  ;  and  left  him. 

Florence  had  heard  enough  before  quitting  the  room,  to 
know  that  Edith  loved  her  yet ;  that  she  had  suffered  for  her 
sake  ;  and  that  she  had  kept  her  sacrifices  quiet,  lest  they 
should  trouble  her  peace.  She  did  not  want  to  speak  to  her  of 
this — she  could  not,  remembering  to  whom  she  was  opposed — ■ 
but  she  wished,  in  one  silent  and  affectionate  embrace,  to  as- 
sure her  that  she  felt  it  all,  and  thanked  her. 

Her  father  went  out  alone,  that  evening,  and  Florence  is- 
suing from  her  own  chamber  soon  afterwards,  went  about  the 
house  in  search  of  Edith,  but  unavailingly.  She  was  in  her  own 
rooms,  where  Florence  had  long  ceased  to  go,  and  did  not 
dare  to  venture   now,  lest  she  should  unconsciously  engendei 


^30  iyoMkkV  AivD  ^av: 

new  trouble  Still  Florei>ce,  hoping  to  meet  lier  before  going 
to  bed,  changed  from  room  to  room,  and  wandered  through  the 
house  so  splendid  and  so  dreary,  without  remaining  any- 
where. 

She  was  crossing  a  gallery  of  communication  that  opened  at 
some  little  distance  on  the  staircase,  and  was  only  lighted  on 
great  occasions,  when  she  saw,  through  the  opening,  which  was 
an  arch,  the  figure  of  a  man  coming  down  some  few  stairs 
opposite.  Instinctively  apprehensive  of  her  father,  whom  she 
supposed  it  was,  she  stopped,  in  the  dark,  gazing  through  the 
arch  into  the  light.  But  it  was  Mr.  Carker  coming  down  alone, 
and  looking  over  the  railing  into  the  hall.  No  bell  was  rung 
to  announce  his  departure,  and  no  servant  was  in  attendance. 
He  went  down  quietly,  opened  the  door  for  himself,  glided  out, 
and  shut  it  softly  after  him. 

Her  invincible  repugnance  to  this  man,  and  perhaps  the 
stealthy  act  of  watching  any  one,  which,  even  under  such  inno- 
cent circumstances,  is  in  a  manner  guilty  and  oppressive,  made 
Florence  shake  from  head  to  foot.  Her  blood  seemed  to  run 
cold.  As  soon  as  she  could — for  at  first  she  felt  an  insurmount- 
able dread  of  moving — she  went  quickly  to  her  own  room  and 
locked  her  door  ;  but  even  then,  shut  in  with  her  dog  beside 
her,  felt  a.  chill  sensation  of  horror,  as  if  there  were  danger 
brooding  somewhere  near  her. 

It  invaded  her  dreams  and  disturbed  the  whole  night. 
Riiiing  in  the  morning,  unrefreshed,  and  with  a  heavy  recollec- 
tion of  the  domestic  unhappiness  of  the  preceding  day,  she 
sought  Edith  again  in  all  the  rooms,  and  did  so,  from  time  to 
time,  all  the  morning.  But  she  remained  in  her  own  chamber, 
and  Florence  saw  nothing  of  her.  Learning,  however,  that  the 
projected  dinner  at  home  was  put  off,  Florence  thought  it  likely 
that  she  would  go  out  in  the  evening  to  fulfil  the  engagement 
she  had  spoken  of ;  and  resolved  to  try  and  meet  her,  then,  upon 
the  staircase. 

When  the  evening  had  set  in,  she  heard,  from  the  room  in 
which  she  sat  on  purpose,  a  footstep  on  the  stairs  that  she 
thought  to  be  Edith's.  Hurrying  out,  and  up  towards  her  room, 
Florence  met  her  immediately,  coming  down  alone. 

What  was  Florence's  affright  and  wonder  when,  at  sight  of 
her,  with  her  tearful  face,  and  outstretched  arms,  Edith  recoiled 
and  shrieked  f 

"  Don't  come  near  me  !  "  she  cried.  "  Keep  away  1  Let 
me  go  by  ! " 

*'  Mama !  "  said  Florence. 


THE  THWrDERBOir.  ^ 

•*  Don't  call  me  by  that  name  !  Don't  speak  to  me  1  Don't 
took  at  me  ! — Florence  !  "  shrinking  back,  as  Florence  moved 
a  step  towards  her,  "  don't  touch  me  !  " 

As  Florence  stood  transfixed  before  the  haggard  face  and 
staring  eyes,  she  noted,  as  in  a  dream,  that  Edith  spread  her 
hands  over  them,  and  shuddering  through  all  her  form,  and 
crouching  down  against  the  wall,  crawled  by  her  like  some  lower 
animal,  sprang  up,  and  fled  away. 

Florence  dropped  upon  the  stairs  in  a  swoon  ;  and  was  found 
there  by  Mrs.  Pipchin,  she  supposed.  She  knew  nothing  more, 
until  she  found  herself  lying  on  her  own  bed,  with  Mrs.  Pipchin 
and  some  servants  standing  round  her. 

"  Where  is  Mama  ?  "  was  her  first  question. 

"  Gone  out  to  dinner,"  said  Mrs.  Pipchin. 

"  And  Papa  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Dombey  is  in  his  own  room,  Miss  Dombey,"  said  Mrs. 
Pipchin,  "and  the  best  thing  you  can  do,  is  to  take  off  your 
things  and  go  to  bed  this  minute."  This  was  the  sagacious 
woman's  remedy  for  all  complaints,  particularly  lowness  ot 
spirits,  and  inability  to  sleep  ;  for  which  offences,  many  young 
victims  in  the  days  of  the  Brighton  Castle  had  been  committed 
to  bed  at  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning. 

Without  promising  obedience,  but  on  the  plea  of  desiring  to 
be  very  quiet,  Florence  disengaged  herself,  as  soon  as  she  could, 
from  the  ministration  of  Mrs.  Pipchin  and  her  attendants.  Left 
alone,  she  thought  of  what  had  happened  on  the  staircase,  at  first 
in  doubt  of  its  reality  ;  then  with  tears  ;  then  with  an  indescribable 
and  terrible  alarm,  like  that  she  had  felt  the  night  before. 

She  determined  not  to  go  to  bed  until  Edith  returned,  and 
if  she  could  not  speak  to  her,  at  least  to  be  sure  that  she  was 
safe  at  home.  What  indistinct  and  shadowy  dread  moved 
Florence  to  this  resolution,  she  did  not  know,  and  did  not  dare 
to  think.  She  only  knew  that  until  Edith  came  back,  there  was 
no  repose  for  her  aching  head  or  throbbing  heart. 

The  evening  deepened  into  night :  midnight  came ;  nc 
Edith. 

Florence  could  not  read,  or  rest  a  moment.  She  paced  her 
own  room,  opened  the  door  and  paced  the  staircase-gallery  out- 
side, looked  out  of  window  on  the  night,  listened  to  the  wind 
blowing  and  the  rain  falling,  sat  down  and  watched  the  faces  in 
the  fire,  got  up  and  watched  the  moon  flying  like  a  storm-driven 
chip  through  the  sea  of  clouds. 

All  the  house  was  gone  to  bed,  except  two  servants  wbo 
y^x^  waiting  the  return  of  their  mistress,  down  stairs. 


632  DOMBEY  AND  SOI^. 

One  o'clock.  The  carriages  that  rumbled  in  the  distance, 
turned  away,  or  stopped  short,  or  went  past ;  the  silence 
gradually  deepened,  and  was  more  and  more  rarely  broken, 
save  by  a  rush  of  wind  or  sweep  of  rain.  Two  o'clock.  No 
Edith  ! 

Florence,  more  agitated,  paced  her  room,  and  paced  the 
gallery  outside  ;  and  looked  out  at  the  night,  blurred  and  wavy 
witi;  the  rain  drops  on  tlic  glass,  and  the  tears  in  her  own  eyes  ; 
and  looked  up  at  the  hurry  in  the  sky,  so  different  from  the 
repose  below,  and  yet  so  tranquil  and  solitary.  Three  o'clock  I 
There  was  a  terror  in  every  ash  that  dropped  out  of  the  fire. 
No  Edith  yet. 

More  and  more  agitated,  Florence  paced  her  room,  and 
paced  the  gallery,  and  looked  out  at  the  moon  with  a  new  fancy 
of  her  likeness  to  a  pale  fugitive  hurrying  away  and  hiding  her 
guilty  face.     Four  struck  !     Five  !     No  Edith  yet. 

But  now  there  was  some  cautious  stir  in  the  house  ;  and 
Florence  found  that  Mrs.  Pipchin  had  been  awakened  by  one 
of  those  who  sat  up,  had  risen  and  had  gone  down  to  hei 
father's  door.  Stealing  lower  down  the  stairs,  and  obser\'ing 
what  passed,  she  saw  her  father  come  out  in  his  morning  gown, 
and  start  when  he  was  told  his  wife  had  not  come  home.  He 
dispatched  a  messenger  to  the  stables  to  inquire  whether  the 
coachman  was  there  ;  and  while  the  man  was  gone,  dressed  him- 
self very  hurriedly. 

The  man  came  back,  in  great  haste,  bringing  the  coachman 
^'ith  him,  who  said  he  had  been  at  home  and  in  bed  since  ten 
o'clock.  He  had  driven  his  mistress  to  her  old  house  in  Brook 
Street,  where  she  had  been  met  by  Mr,  Carker — ■ 

Florence  stood  upon  the  very  spot  where  she  had  seen  him 
coming  down.  Again  she  shivered  with  the  nameless  terror  of 
that  sight,  and  had  hardly  steadiness  enough  to  hear  and  under- 
stand what  followed. 

— Who  had  told  him,  the  man  went  on  to  say,  that  his  mis- 
tress would  not  want  the  carriage  to  go  home  in  ;  and  had  dis- 
missed him. 

She  saw  her  father  turn  white  in  the  face,  and  heard  him  ask 
in  a  quick,  trembling  voice  for  Mrs.  Dombey's  maid.  The  whole 
house  was  roused  ;  for  she  was  there,  in  a  moment,  very  pale 
too,  and  speaking  incoherently. 

She  said  she  had  dressed  her  mistress  early — full  two  hours 
before  she  went  out — and  had  been  told,  as  she  often  was,  that 
she  would  not  be  wanted  at  night.  She  had  just  come  from  hex 
mistress's  rooms,  but — 


THE  THUNDERBOLT.  d^ 

"  But  what !  what  was  it  ?  "  Florence  heard  her  father  de- 
mand Uke  a  madman. 

"  But  the  inner  dressing-room  was  locked,  and  the  key 
gone." 

Her  father  seized  a  candle  that  was  flaming  on  the  ground 
— some  one  had  put  it  down  there,  and  forgotten  it — and  came 
running  up  stairs  with  such  fury,  that  Florence,  in  her  fear,  had 
hardly  time  to  fly  before  him.  She  heard  him  striking  in  the 
door  as  she  ran  on,  with  her  hands  widely  spread,  and  her  hair 
streaming,  and  her  face  like  a  distracted  person's,  back  to  her 
own  room. 

When  the  door  yielded,  and  he  rushed  in,  what  did  he  see 
there  ?  No  one  knew.  But  thrown  down  in  a  costly  mass  upon 
the  ground,  was  every  ornament  she  had  had,  since  she  had 
been  his  wife  :  every  dress  she  had  worn ;  and  everything  she 
had  possessed.  This  was  the  loom  in  which  he  had  seen,  in 
yonder  mirror,  the  proud  face  discard  him.  This  was  the  room 
in  which  he  had  wondered,  idly,  how  these  things  would  look 
when  he  should  see  them  next ! 

Heaping  them  back  into  the  drawers,  and  locking  them  up 
in  a  rage  of  haste,  he  saw  some  papers  on  the  table.  The  deed 
of  settlement  he  had  executed  on  their  marriage,  and  a  letter. 
He  read  that  she  was  gone.  He  read  that  he  was  dishonored. 
He  read  that  she  had  fled,  upon  her  shameful  wedding-day, 
with  the  man  whom  he  had  chosen  for  her  humiliation  ;  and 
he  tore  out  of  the  room,  and  out  of  the  house,  with  a  frantic 
idea  of  finding  her  yet,  at  the  place  to  which  she  had  been 
taken,  and  beating  all  trace  of  beauty  out  of  the  triumphant 
face  with  his  bare  hand. 

Florence,  not  knowing  what  she  did,  put  on  a  shawl  and 
bonnet,  in  a  dream  of  running  through  the  streets  until  she 
found  Edith,  and  then  clasping  her  in  her  arms,  to  save  and 
bring  her  back.  But  when  she  hurried  out  upon  the  staircase, 
and  saw  the  frightened  servants  going  up  and  down  with  lights, 
and  whispering  together,  and  falling  away  from  her  father  as  he 
passed  down,  she  awoke  to  a  sense  of  her  own  powerlessness  ; 
and  hiding  in  one  of  the  great  rooms  that  had  been  made  gor- 
geous for  this,  felt  as  if  her  heart  would  burst  with  grief. 

Compassion  for  her  father  was  the  first  distinct  emotion  that 
made  head  against  the  flood  of  sorrow  which  overwhelmed  her. 
Her  constant  nature  turned  to  him  in  his  distress,  as  fervently 
and  faithfully,  as  if,  in  his  prosperity,  he  had  been  the  embodi- 
ment of  that  idea  which  had  gradually  become  so  faint  and  dim. 
Although  she  did  not  know,  otherwise  than  through  the  sugges- 


634  DOMBEY  AXD  SON. 

tions  of  a  shapeless  fear,  the  full  extent  of  his  calamity,  he  stood 
before  her  wronged  and  deserted ;  and  again  her  yearning  love 
impelled  her  to  his  side. 

He  was  not  long  away  :  for  Florence  was  yet  weeping  in  the 
great  room  and  nourishing  these  thoughts,  when  she  heard  him 
come  back.  He  ordered  the  servants  to  set  about  their  ordinary 
occupations,  and  went  into  his  own  apartment,  where  he  trod  so 
heavily  that  she  could  hear  him  walking  up  and  down  from  end 
to  end. 

Yielding  at  once  to  the  impulse  of  her  affection,  timid  at  all 
other  times,  but  bold  in  its  truth  to  him  in  his  adversity,  and  un- 
daunted by  past  repulse,  Florence,  dressed  as  she  was,  hurried 
downstairs.  As  she  set  her  light  foot  in  the  hall,  he  came  out 
of  his  room.  She  hastened  towards  him  unchecked,  with  her 
arms  stretched  out,  and  crying,  "  Oh  dear,  dear  Papa  !  "  as  if 
she  would  have  clasped  him  round  the  neck. 

And  so  she  would  have  done.  But  in  his  frenzy,  he  lifted 
up  his  cruel  arm,  and  struck  her,  crosswise,  with  that  heaviness, 
that  she  tottered  on  the  marble  floor  ;  and  as  he  dealt  the  blow, 
he  told  her  what  Edith  was,  and  bade  her  follow  her,  since  they 
had  always  been  in  league. 

She  did  not  sink  down  at  his  feet ;  she  did  not  shut  out  the 
sight  of  him  with  her  trembling  hands  ;  she  did  not  weep  ;  she 
did  not  utter  one  word  of  reproach.  But  she  looked  at  him, 
and  a  cry  of  desolation  issued  from  her  heart.  For  as  she 
looked,  she  saw  him  murdering  that  fond  idea  to  which  she 
had  held  in  spite  of  him.  She  saw  his  cruelty,  neglect,  and  hatred 
dominant  above  it,  and  stamping  it  down.  She  saw  she  had  no 
father  upon  earth,  and  ran  out,  orphaned,  from  his  house. 

Ran  out  of  his  house.  A  moment,  and  her  hand  was  on  the 
lock,  the  cry  was  on  her  lips,  his  face  was  there,  made  paler  by 
the  yellow  candles  hastily  put  down  and  guttering  away,  and  by 
the  daylight  coming  in  above  the  door.  Another  moment,  and 
the  close  darkness  of  the  shut-up  house  (forgotten  to  be  opened, 
though  it  was  long  since  day)  yielded  to  the  unexpected  glare 
and  freedom  of  the  morning  ;  and  Florence,  with  her  head  bent 
down  to  hide  her  agony  of  tears,  was  in  the  streets. 


THE  ELICHT  OP  FLORENCE.  635 


CHAPTER  XLVIII. 

THE   FLIGHT   OF    FLORENCE. 

Ik  the  wildness  of  her  sorrow,  shame,  and  terror,  the  for- 
lorn girl  hurried  through  the  sunshine  of  a  bright  morning,  as 
if  it  were  the  darkness  of  a  winter  night.  Wringing  her  hands 
and  weeping  bitterly,  insensible  to  everything  but  the  deep 
wound  in  her  breast,  stunned  by  the  loss  of  all  she  loved,  left 
like  the  sole  survivor  on  a  lonely  shore  from  the  wreck  of  a 
great  vessel,  she  fled  without  a  thought,  without  a  hope,  with- 
out a  purpose,  but  to  fly  somewhere — anywhere. 

The  cheerful  vista  of  the  long  street,  burnished  by  the  morn- 
ing light,  the  sight  of  the  blue  sky  and  airy  clouds,  the  vigorous 
freshness  of  the  day,  so  flushed  and  rosy  in  its  conquest  of  the 
night,  awakened  no  responsive  feelings  in  her  so  hurt  bosom. 
Somewhere,  anywhere,  to  hide  her  head !  somewhere,  anywhere, 
for  refuge,  never  more  to  look  upon  the  place  from  which  she 
fled! 

But  there  were  people  going  to  and  fro ;  there  were  opening 
shops,  and  servants  at  the  doors  of  houses  ;  there  was  the  rising 
clash  and  roar  of  the  day's  struggle.  Florence  saw  surprise 
and  curiosity  in  the  faces  flitting  past  her ;  saw  long  shadows 
coming  back  upon  the  pavement ;  and  heard  voices  that  were 
strange  to  her  asking  her  where  she  went,  and  what  the  matter 
was  ;  and  though  these  frightened  her  the  more  at  first,  and 
made  her  hurry  on  the  faster,  they  did  her  the  good  service  of 
recalling  her  in  some  degree  to  herself,  and  reminding  her  of 
the  necessity  of  greater  composure. 

Where  to  go  ?  Still  somewhere,  anywhere  !  still  going  on  ; 
but  where  !  She  thought  of  the  only  other  time  she  had  been 
lost  in  the  wide  wilderness  of  London — though  not  lost  as  now 
— and  went  that  way.     To  the  home  of  Walter's  uncle. 

Checking  her  sobs,  and  drying  her  swollen  eyes,  and 
endeavoring  to  calm  the  agitation  of  her  manner,  so  as  to 
avoid  attracting  notice,  Florence,  resolving  to  keep  to  the  more 
quiet  streets  as  long  as  she  could,  was  going  on  more  quietly 
herself,  when  a  familiar  little  shadow  darted  past  upon  the 
sunny  pavement,  stopped  short,  wheeled  about,  came  close  to 


4^  DO.VBEV  AND  SON. 

her.,  made  off  again,  bounded  round  and  round  her,  and  Did 
genes,  panting  for  breath,  and  yet  making  the  street  ring  with 
his  glad  bark,  was  at  her  feet. 

"  Oh,  Di !  oh,  dear,  true,  faithful  Di,  how  did  you  come 
here  !  How  could  I  ever  leave  you,  Di,  who  would  never  leave 
me  !" 

Florence  bent  down  on  the  pavement,  and  laid  his  rough, 
old,  loving,  foolish  head  against  her  breast,  and  they  got  up  to- 
gether, and  went  on  together  ;  Di  more  off  the  ground  than  on 
it,  endeavoring  to  kiss  his  mistress  flying,  tumbling  over  and 
getting  up  again  without  the  least  concern,  dast  ing  at  big  dogs 
in  a  jocose  defiance  of  his  species,  terrifying  with  couches  of 
his  nose  young  housemaids  who  were  cleaning  doorsteps,  and 
continually  stopping,  in  the  midst  of  a  thousand  extravagances, 
to  look  back  at  Florence,  and  bark  until  all  the  dogs  within 
hearing  answered,  and  all  the  dogs  who  could  come  out,  came 
out  to  stare  at  him. 

With  this  last  adherent,  Florence  hurried  away  in  the 
advancing  morning,  and  the  strenghtening  sunshine,  to  the  City. 
The  roar  soon  grew  more  loud,  the  passengers  more  numerous, 
the  shops  more  busy,  until  she  was  carried  onward  in  a  stream 
of  life  setting  that  way,  and  flowing,  indifferently,  past  marts 
and  mansions,  prisons,  churches,  market-places,  wealth,  poverty, 
good,  and  evil,  like  the  broad  river  side  by  side  with  it, 
awakened  from  its  dreams  of  rushes,  willows,  and  green  moss, 
and  rolling  on,  turbid  and  troubled,  among  the  works  and  cares 
of  men,  to  the  deep  sea. 

At  length  the  quarters  of  the  little  Midshipman  arose  in 
view.  Nearer  yet,  and  the  little  Midshipman  himself  was  seen 
upon  his  post,  intent  as  ever,  on  his  observations.  Nearer  yet, 
and  the  door  stood  open,  inviting  her  to  enter.  Florence,  who 
had  again  quickened  her  pace,  as  she  approached  the  end  of 
her  journey,  ran  across  the  road  (closely  followed  by  Diogenes, 
whom  the  bustle  had  somewhat  confused),  ran  in,  and  sank 
upon  the  threshold  of  the  well-remembered  little  parlor. 

The  Captain,  in  his  glazed  hat,  was  standing  over  the  fire, 
making  his  morning's  cocoa,  with  that  elegant  trifle,  his  watch, 
upon  the  chimney-piece,  for  easy  reference  during  the  progress 
of  the  cooker)'.  Hearing  a  footstep  and  the  rustle  of  a  dress, 
ihe  Captain  turned  with  a  palpitating  remembrance  of  the 
dreadful  Mrs.  MacSiinger,  at  the  instant  when  Florence  made 
a  motion  with  her  hand  towards  him,  reeled,  and  fell  upon  the 
floor. 

The  Captain,  paie  as  Florence,  pale  in  the  very  knobs  upon 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  FLORENCE.  i^^it 

his  face,  raised  her  like  a  baby,  and  laid  her  on  the  same  old 
sofa  upon  which  she  had  slumbered  long  ago. 

"  It's  Heart  Delight ! "  said  the  Captain,  looking  intently  in 
her  face.     "  It's  the  sweet  creetur  grow'd  a  woman  !  " 

Caj^tain  Cuttle  was  so  respectful  of  her,  and  had  such  « 
reverence  for  her,  in  this  new  character,  t'lat  he  would  not  have 
held  her  in  his  arms,  while  she  was  unconscious,  for  a  thousand 
pounds. 

"  My  Heart's  Delight !  "  said  the  Captain,  withdrawing  to  a 
little  distance,  with  the  greatest  alarm  and  sympathy  depicted 
on  his  countenance.  "  If  you  can  hail  Ned  Cuttle  with  a  finger, 
do  it !  " 

But  Florence  did  not  stir. 

"  My  Heart's  Delight !  "  said  the  trembling  Captain.  "  For 
the  sake  of  Wal'r  drownded  in  the  briny  deep,  turn  to,  and 
histe  up  something  or  another,  if  able." 

Finding  her  insensible  to  this  impressive  adjuration  also, 
Captain  Cuttle  snatched  from  his  breakfast-table  a  basin  of  cold 
water,  and  sprinkled  some  upon  her  face.  Yielding  to  the 
urgency  of  the  case,  the  Captain  then,  using  his  immense  hand 
with  extraordinary  gentleness,  relieved  her  of  her  bonnet, 
moistened  her  lips  and  forehead,  put  back  her  hair,  covered 
her  feet  with  his  own  coat  which  he  pulled  off  for  the  purpose, 
patted  her  hand — so  small  in  his,  that  he  was  struck  with 
wonder  when  he  touched  it — and  seeing  that  her  eyelids 
quivered,  and  that  her  lips  began  to  move,  continued  these 
restorative  applications  with  a  better  heart. 

"  Cheerily,"  said  the  Captain.  "  Cheerily  !  Stand  by,  my 
pretty  one,  stand  by!  There!  You're  better  now.  Steady's 
the  word,  and  steady  it  is.  Keep  her  so  !  Drink  a  little  drop  o' 
this  here,"  said  the  Captain.  "  There  you  are  !  What  cheer 
now,  my  pretty,  what  cheer  now  .-•  " 

At  this  stage  of  her  recovery.  Captain  Cuttle,  with  an  imper- 
fect association  of  a  Watch  with  a  Physician's  treatment  of  a  pa- 
tient, took  his  own  down  from  the  mantel-shelf,  and  holding  it  out 
on  his  hook,  and  taking  Florence's  hand  in  his,  looked  steadily 
from  one  to  the  other,  as  expecting  the  dial  to  do  something. 

"  What  cheer,  my  pretty  ?  "  said  the  Captain.  "  What  cheer 
now?  You've  done  her  some  good,  my  lad,  I  believe,"  said  the 
Captain,  under  his  breath,  and  throwing  an  approving  glance 
upon  his  watch.  "  Put  you  back  half-an-hour  every  morning, 
and  about  another  quarter  towards  the  afternoon,  and  you're  a 
watch  as  can  be  ekalled  by  few  and  excelled  by  none.  ^^'h^U■ 
ch^er,  my  lady  la§$ ! " 


6^2  DOMBEY  AND  SOiY. 

"  Captain  Cuttle  !  Is  it  you  !  "  exclaimed  Florence,  rising 
herself  a  little. 

"  Yes,  yes,  my  lady  lass,"  said  the  Captain,  hastily  deciding 
in  his  own  mind  upon  the  superior  elegance  of  that  form  of 
address,  as  the  most  courtly  he  could  think  of. 

"  Is  Walter's  uncle  here  ?  "  asked  Florence. 

"  Here,  pretty  !  "  returned  the  Captain.  "  He  an't  been 
here  this  many  a  long  day.  He  an't  been  heered  on,  since  he 
sheered  off  arter  poor  Wal'r.  But,"  said  the  Captain,  as  a 
quotation,  "  Though  lost  to  sight,  to  memory  dear,  and 
England,  Home  and  Beauty  !  " 

"  Do  you  live  here  ?"  asked  Florence. 

"  Yes,  my  lady  lass,"  returned  the  Captain. 

"  Oh,  Captain  Cuttle  !"  cried  Florence,  putting  her  hands 
together,  and  speaking  wildly.  "  Save  me  !  keep  me  here  !  Let 
no  one  know  where  I  am  !  I'll  tell  you  what  has  happened  by 
and  by,  when  I  can.  I  have  no  one  in  the  world  to  go  to.  Do 
not  send  me  away  !  " 

"  Send  yoii  away,  my  lady  lass  !  "  exclaimed  the  Captain, 
"  You^  my  Heart's  Delight !  Stay  a  bit  !  We'll  put  up  this 
here  dead-light,  and  take  a  double  turn  on  the  key  !  " 

With  these  words,  the  Captain,  using  his  one  hand  and  his 
hook  with  the  greatest  dexterity,  got  out  the  shutter  of  the 
door,  put  it  up,  made  it  all  fast,  and  locked  the  door  itself. 

When  he  came  back  to  the  side  of  Florence,  she  took  his 
hand,  and  kissed  it.  The  helplessness  of  the  action,  the 
appeal  it  made  to  him,  the  confidence  it  expressed,  the  un- 
speakable sorrow  in  her  face,  the  pain  of  mind  she  had  too 
plainly  suffered,  and  was  suffering  then,  his  knowledge  of  her 
past  history,  her  present  lonely,  worn,  and  unprotected  appear- 
ance, all  so  rushed  upon  the  Good  Captain  together,  that  he 
fairly  overflowed  with  compassion  and  gentleness. 

"  My  lady  lass,"  said  the  Captain,  polishing  the  bridge  of 
his  nose  with  his  arm  until  it  shone  like  burnished  copper, 
•*  don't  you  say  a  word  to  Ed'ard  Cuttle,  until  such  times  as 
you  finds  yourself  a  riding  smooth  and  easy  ;  which  won't  be 
to-day,  nor  yet  to-morrow.  And  as  to  giving  of  you  up,  or 
reporting  where  you  are,  yes  verily,  and  by  God's  help,  so  I 
won't.  Church  catechism,  make  a  note  on  !  " 

This  the  Captain  said,  reference  and  all,  in  one  breath,  and 
with  much  solemnity  ;  taking  off  his  hat  at  "  yes  verily,"  and 
putting  it  on  again,  when  he  had  quite  concluded. 

Florence  could  do  but  one  thing  more  to  thank  him,  and  to 
»1)9W  him  how  ghe  trusted  in  him  \  and  she  did  it.     Clinging  to 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  FLORENCE.  6^9 

this  rough  creature  as  the  last  asyhim  of  her  bleeding  heart,  she 
laid  her  head  upon  his  honest  shoulder,  and  clasped  him  round 
his  neck,  and  would  have  kneeled  down  to  bless  him,  but 
that  he  divined  her  purpose,  and  held  her  up  like  a  true 
man. 

"  Steady  !  "  said  the  Captain.  "  Steady  !  You're  too  weak  to 
stand,  you  see,  my  pretty,  and  must  lie  down  here  again.  There, 
there  !  "  To  see  the  Captain  lift  her  on  the  sofa,  and  cover  her 
with  his  coat,  would  have  been  worth  a  hundred  state  sights. 
"  And  now,"  said  the  Captain,  "  you  must  take  some  breakfast, 
lady  lass,  and  the  dog  shall  have  some  too.  And  arter  that  you 
shall  go  aloft  to  old  Sol  Gills's  room,  and  fall  asleep  there,  like 
a  angel." 

Captain  Cuttle  patted  Diogenes  when  he  made  allusion  to 
him,  and  Diogenes  met  that  overture  graciously,  half-way. 
During  the  administration  of  the  restoratives  he  had  clearly 
been  in  two  minds  whether  to  fly  at  the  Captain  or  to  ofifer  him 
his  friendship  ;  and  he  had  expressed  that  conflict  of  feeling  by 
alternate  waggings  of  his  tail,  and  displays  of  his  teeth,  with 
now  and  then  a  growl  or  so.  But  by  this  time  his  doubts  were 
all  removed.  It  was  plain  that  he  considered  the  Captain  one 
of  the  most  amiable  of  men,  and  a  man  whom  it  was  an  honor 
to  a  dog  to  know. 

In  evidence  of  these  convictions,  Diogenes  attended  on  the 
Captain  while  he  made  some  tea  and  toast,  and  showed  a  lively 
interest  in  his  housekeeping.  But  it  was  in  vain  for  the  kind 
Captain  to  make  such  preparations  for  Florence,  who  sorely 
tried  to  do  some  honor  to  them,  but  could  touch  nothing,  and 
could  only  weep  and  weep  again. 

"  Well,  well ! "  said  the  compassionate  Captain,  "  arter  turn- 
ing in,  my  Heart's  Delight,  you'll  get  more  way  upon  you.  Now, 
I'll  serve  out  your  allowance,  my  lad."  To  Diogenes.  "And 
you  shall  keep  guard  on  your  mistress  aloft." 

Diogenes,  however,  although  he  had  been  eyeing  his  in- 
tended breakfast  with  a  watering  mouth  and  glistening  eyes,  in- 
stead of  falling  to,  ravenously,  when  it  was  put  before  him, 
pricked  up  his  ears,  darted  to  the  shop-door,  and  barked  there 
furiously:  burrowing  with  his  head  at  the  bottom,  as  if  he  were 
bent  on  mining  his  way  out. 

*'  Can  there  be  anybody  there  !  "  asked  Florence,  in  alarm. 

"  No,  my  lady  lass,"  returned  the  Captain.  "  Who'd  stay 
there,  without  making  any  noise!  Keep  up  a  good  heart, 
•Dretty.     It's  only  people  going  by." 

But  for  all  that,  Diogenes  barked  and  barked,  and  burrowfd 


640  DOMBE  Y  AXD  SOy. 

and  burrowed,  with  pertinacious  fury ;  and  whenever  he  stoppe<J 
to  listen,  appeared  to  receive  some  new  conviction  into  hia 
mind,  for  he  set  to,  barking  and  burrowing  again,  a  dozen 
times.  Even  when  he  was  persuaded  to  return  to  his  break- 
fast, he  came  jogging  back  to  it,  with  a  very  doubtful  air ;  and 
was  off  again,  in  another  paroxysm,  before  touching  a  morsel. 

"  If  there  should  be  some  one  listening  and  watching," 
whispered  Florence.  "  Some  one  who  saw  me  come — wh© 
followed  me  perhaps." 

"  It  an't  the  young  woman,  lady  lass,  is  it  ?  "  said  the  Cap- 
tain, taken  with  a  bright  idea. 

"Susan?  "said  Florence,  shaking  her  head.  "Ah  noi 
Susan  has  been  gone  from  me  a  long  time." 

"  Not  deserted,  I  hope  ?  "  said  the  Captain.  "  Don't  say 
that  that  there  young  woman's  run,  my  pretty  !  " 

"  Oh,  no,  no  !  "  cried  Florence.  "  She  is  one  of  the  truest 
hearts  in  the  world  !  " 

The  Captain  was  greatly  relieved  by  this  reply,  and  ex« 
pressed  his  satisfaction  by  taking  off  his  hard  glazed  hat,  and 
dabbing  his  head  all  over  with  his  handkerchief,  rolled  up  like 
a  ball,  observing  several  times,  with  infinite  complacency,  and 
with  a  beaming  countenance,  that  he  know'd  it. 

"  So  you're  quiet  now,  are  you,  brother  ?  "  said  the  Captain 
to  Diogenes.  "  There  warn't  nobody  there,  my  lady  lass,  bless 
you ! " 

Diogenes  was  not  so  sure  of  that.  The  door  still  had  an 
attraction  for  him  at  intervals ;  and  he  went  snuffing  about  it, 
and  growling  to  himself,  unable  to  forget  the  subject.  This 
incident,  coupled  with  the  Captain's  observation  of  Florence's 
fatigue  and  faintness,  decided  him  to  prepare  Sol  Gills's  cham- 
ber as  a  place  of  retirement  for  her  immediately.  He  therefore 
hastily  betook  himself  to  the  top  of  the  house,  and  made  the 
best  arrangement  of  it  that  his  imagination  and  his  means  sug- 
gested. 

It  was  very  clean  already  ;  and  the  Captain  being  an  orderly 
man,  and  accustomed  to  make  things  ship-shape,  converted  the 
bed  into  a  couch,  by  covering  it  all  over  with  a  clean  white 
drapery.  By  a  similar  contrivance,  the  Captain  converted  the 
little  dressing-table  into  a  species  of  altar,  on  which  he  set  forth 
two  silver  teaspoons,  a  flower-pot,  a  telescope,  his  celebrated 
watch,  a  pocket-comb,  and  a  song-book,  as  a  small  collection  of 
rarities,  that  made  a  choice  appearance.  Ha\'ing  darkened  the 
window,  and  straightened  the  pieces  of  carpet  on  the  floor,  the 
Captain  surveyed  these  preparations  with  great  delight,  ano 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  FLORENCE.  641 

descended  to  the  little  parlor  again,  to  bring  Florence  to  hei 
bower. 

Nothing  would  induce  the  Captain  to  believe  that  it  was 
possible  for  Florence  to  walk  up  stairs.  If  he  could  have  got 
the  idea  into  his  head,  he  would  have  considered  it  an  out- 
rageous breach  of  hospitality  to  allow  her  to  do  so.  Florence 
was  too  weak  to  dispute  the  point,  and  the  Captain  carried  hei* 
up  out  of  hand,  laid  her  down,  and  covered  her  with  a  great 
watch-coat. 

"  My  lady  lass  !  "  said  the  Captain,  "  you're  as  safe  here  as 
if  you  was  at  the  top  of  St.  Paul's  Cathedral,  with  the  ladder 
cast  off.  Sleep  is  what  you  want,  afore  all  other  things,  and 
may  you  be  able  to  show  yourself  smart  with  that  there  balsam 
for  the  still  small  woice  of  a  wownded  mind !  When  there's 
anything  you  want,  my  Heart's  Delight,  as  this  here  humble 
house  or  town  can  offer,  pass  the  word  to  Ed'ard  Cuttle,  as'll 
stand  off  and  on  outside  that  door,  and  that  there  man  wil/ 
Mribrate  with  joy."  The  Captain  concluded  by  kissing  the 
hand  that  Florence  stretched  out  to  him,  with  the  chivalry 
of  any  old  knight-errant,  and  walking  on  tiptoe  out  of  the 
room. 

Descending  to  the  li-ttle  parlor.  Captain  Cuttle,  after  holding 
a  hasty  council  with  himself,  decided  to  open  the  shop-door  for 
a  few  minutes,  and  satisfy  himself  that  now,  at  all  events,  there 
was  no  one  loitering  about  it.  Accordingly  he  set  it  open,  and 
stood  upon  the  threshold,  keeping  a  bright  look-out,  and 
sweeping  the  whole  street  with  his  spectacles. 

"  How  de  do.  Captain  Gills  ? "  said  a  voice  beside  him. 
The  Captain,  looking  down,  found  that  he  had  been  boarded 
by  Mr.  Toots  while  sweeping  the  horizon. 

"  How  are  you,  my  lad  ?  "  replied  the  Captain. 

"  Well,  I'm  pretty  well,  thank'ee.  Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr. 
Toots.  "  You  know  I'm  never  quite  what  I  could  wish  to  be, 
now.     I  don't  expect  that  I  ever  shall  be  any  more." 

Mr,  Toots  never  approached  anv  nearer  than  this  to  the 
great  theme  of  his  life,  when  in  conversation  with  Captain  Cut- 
tle, on  account  of  the  agreement  between  them. 

"  Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  if  I  could  have  the 
pleasure  of  a  word  with  you,  it's — it's  rather  particular." 

"  Why,  you  see,  my  lad,"  replied  the  Captain,  leading  the 
way  into  the  parlor,  "I  an't  what  you  may  call  exactly  free  this 
morning  ;  and  therefore  if  you  can  clap  on  a  bit,  I  should 
take  it  kindly." 

"■  Certainly,  Captain  Gills^ "  replied  Mr.  Toots,  who  seldom 


642  DOMBEY  AND  SOX. 

had  any  notion  of  the  Captain's  meaning.  "  To  clap  on,  is 
exactly  what  I  could  wish  to  do.     Naturally." 

**  If  so  be,  my  lad,"  returned  the  Captain,  "  do  it ! " 

The  Captain  was  so  impressed  by  the  possession  of  his  tre- 
mendous secret — by  the  fact  of  Miss  Dombey  being  at  that 
moment  under  his  roof,  while  the  innocent  and  unconscious 
Toots  sat  opposite  to  him — that  a  perspiration  broke  out  on 
his  forehead,  and  he  found  it  impossible  while  slowly  drying  the 
same,  glazed  hat  in  hand,  to  keep  his  eyes  off  Mr.  Toots's  face 
Mr.  Toots,  who  himself  appeared  to  have  some  secret  reasons 
for  being  in  a  nervous  state,  was  so  unspeakably  disconcerted 
by  the  Captain's  stare,  that  after  looking  at  him  vacantly  for 
some  time  in  silence,  and  shifting  uneasily  on  his  chair,  he  said  : 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Captain  Gills,  but  you  don't  happen  to 
see  anything  particular  in  me,  do  you  1  " 

"  No,  my  lad,"  returned  the  Captain.     "  No." 

"  Because  you  know,"  said  Mr.  Toots  with  a  chuckle,  "  I 
know  I'm  wasting  away.  You  needn't  at  all  mind  alluding  to 
that.  I — I  should  like  it.  Burgess  and  Co.  have  altered  my 
measure,  I'm  in  that  state  of  thinness.  It's  a  gratification  to 
me.  I — I'm  glad  of  it.  I — I'd  a  great  deal  rather  go  into  a 
decline,  if  I  could.  I'm  a  mere  brute  you  know,  grazing  upon 
the  surface  of  the  earth,  Captain  Gills." 

The  more  Mr.  Toots  went  on  in  this  way,  the  more  the  Cap- 
tain was  weighed  down  by  his  secret,  and  stared  at  him.  What 
with  this  cause  of  uneasiness,  and  his  desire  to  get  rid  of  Mr. 
Toots,  the  Captain  was  in  a  such  scared  and  strange  condition, 
indeed,  that  if  he  had  been  in  conversation  with  a  ghost,  he 
could  hardly  have  evinced  greater  discomposure. 

"  But  I  was  going  to  say,  Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr.  Toots. 
"  Happening  to  be  this  way  early  this  morning — to  tell  you 
the  truth,  I  was  coming  to  breakfast  with  you.  As  to  sleep, 
you  know,  I  never  sleep  now.  I  might  be  a  Watchman,  except 
that  I  don't  get  any  pay,  and  he's  got  nothing  on  his  mind." 

"  Carry  on,  my  lad  !  "  said  the  Captain,  in  an  admonitory 
voice. 

"  Certainly,  Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr.  Toots.  "  Perfectly 
true  !  Happening  to  be  this  way  early  this  morning  (an  hour 
or  so  ago),  and  finding  the  door  shut — " 

"  What  !  were  jvw  waiting  there,  brother  1  "  demanded  the 
Captain. 

"  Not  at  all.  Captain  Gills,"  returned  Mr.  Toots.  "  I  didn't 
stop  a  moment.  I  thought  you  were  out.  But  the  person  said 
— by  the  bye,  you  don  t  keep  a  dog,  do  you,  Captain  Gills  .'  " 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  FLORENCE-  643 

rhe  Captain  shook  his  head. 

■'  To  be  sure,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  that's  exactly  what  I  said, 
I  knew  you  didn't.  There  is  a  dog,  Captain  Gills,  connected 
with — but  excuse  me.     That's  forbidden  ground." 

The  Captain  stared  at  Mr.  Toots  until  he  seemed  to  swell 
to  twice  his  natural  size  ;  and  again  the  perspiration  broke  out 
on  the  Captain's  forehead,  when  he  thought  of  Diogenes  taking 
it  into  his  head  to  come  down  and  make  a  third  in  the  parlor. 

"  The  person  said,"  continued  Mr.  Toots,  "  that  he  had 
heard  a  dog  barking  in  the  shop :  which  I  knew  couldn't  be,  and 
I  told  hini^  so.  But  he  was  as  positive  as  if  he  had  seen  the 
dog." 

"  What  person,  my  lad  ?  "  inquired  the  Captain. 

"  Why,  you  see,  there  it  is.  Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr.  Toots, 
with  a  perceptible  increase  in  the  nervousness  of  his  manner. 
"It's  not  for  me  to  say  what  may  have  taken  place,  or  Avhat 
may  not  have  taken  place.  Indeed  I  don't  know.  1  get  mixed 
up  with  all  sorts  of  things  that  I  don't  quite  understand,  and  I 

think  there's  something  rather  weak  in  my in  my  head,  in 

short." 

The  Captain  nodded  his  own,  as  a  mark  of  assent. 

"But  the  person  said,  as  we  were  walking  away,"  continued 
Mr.  Toots,  "  that  you  knew  what,  under  existing  circumstances, 
wig/it  occur — he  said  '  might,'  very  strongly— and  that  if  you 
were  requested  to  prepare  yourself,  you  would,  no  doubt,  come 
prepared." 

"  Person,  my  ladl  "  the  Captain  repeated. 

"  I  don't  know  what  person,  I'm  sure.  Captain  Gills,"  replied 
Ml.  Toots,  "  I  haven't  the  least  idea.  But  coming  to  the  door 
I  found  him  waiting  there  ;  and  he  said  was  I  coming  back 
again,  and  I  said  yes  ;  and  he  said  did  I  know  you,  and  I  said 
yes,  I  had  the  pleasure  of  your  acquaintance — you  had  given 
me  the  pleasure  of  your  acquaintance,  after  some  persuasion  ; 
and  he  said,  if  that  was  the  case,  would  I  say  to  you  what  I 
have  said,  about  existing  circumstances  and  coming  prepared, 
and  as  soon  as  ever  I  saw  you,  would  I  ask  you  to  step  round 
the  corner,  if  it  was  only  for  one  minute,  on  most  important 
business,  to  Mr.  Brogley's  the  Broker's.  Now,  I  tell  you  what, 
Captain  Gills — whatever  it  is,  I  am  convinced  it's  very  impor- 
tant ;  and  if  you  like  to  step  round,  now,  I'll  wait  here  till  you 
come  back." 

The  Captain,  divided  between  his  fear  of  compromising 
Florence  in  some  way  by  not  going,  and  his  horror  of  leaving 
Mr.  Toots  in  possession  of  the  house  with  a  chance  of  finding 


644  DOMBEV  Ahr£)  SON. 

out  the  secret,  was  a  spectacle  of  mental  disturbance  that  even 
Mr.  Toots  could  not  be  blind  to.  But  that  young  gentleman, 
considering  his  nautical  friend  as  merely  in  a  state  of  prepara- 
tion for  the  interview  he  was  going  to  have,  was  quite  satisfied, 
and  did  not  review  his  own  discreet  conduct  without  chuckles. 

At  length  the  Captain  decided,  as  the  lesser  of  two  evils,  to 
run  round  to  Brogley's  the  Broker's  :  previously  locking  the 
door  that  communicated  with  the  upper  part  of  the  house,  and 
putting  the  key  in  his  pocket.  "  If  so  be,"  said  the  Captain  to 
Mr.  Toots,  with  not  a  little  shame  and  hesitation,  "as  you'll 
excuse  my  doing  of  it,  brother." 

"Captain  Gills,"  returned  Mr.  Toots,  "whatever  you  do,  is 
satisfactory  to  me." 

The  Captain  thanked  him  heartily,  and  promising  to  come 
back  in  less  than  five  minutes,  went  out  in  quest  of  the  person 
who  had  intrusted  Mr.  Toots  with  this  mysterious  message. 
Poor  Mr,  Toots,  left  to  himself,  lay  down  upon  the  sofa,  little 
thinking  who  had  reclined  there  last,  and,  gazing  up  at  the 
skylight  and  resigning  himself  to  visions  of  Miss  Dombey,  lost 
all  heed  of  time  and  place. 

It  was  as  well  that  he  did  so ;  for  although  the  Captain  was 
not  gone  long,  he  was  gone  much  longer  than  he  had  proposed. 
When  he  came  back,  he  was  very  pale  indeed,  and  greatly 
agitated,  and  even  looked  as  if  he  had  been  shedding  tears. 
He  seemed  to  have  lost  the  faculty  of  speech,  until  he  had  been 
to  the  cujDboard  and  taken  a  dram  of  rum  from  the  case-bottle, 
when  he  fetched  a  deep  breath,  and  sat  down  in  a  chair  with 
his  hand  before  his  face. 

"Captain  Gills,"  said  Toots,  kindly,  "  I  hope  and  trust 
there's  nothing  wrong  ?  " 

"  Thank'ee  my  lad,  not  a  bit,"  said  the  Captain.  "Quite 
contrary." 

"  You  have  the  appearance  of  being  overcome,  Captain 
Gills,"  observed  Mr.  Toots. 

"  Why,  my  lad,  I  am  took  aback,"  the  Captain  admitted. 
"  I  am." 

"Is  there  anything  I  can  do,  Captain  Gills.?"  inquired  Mr. 
Toots.     "  If  there  is,  make  use  of  me." 

The  Captain  removed  his  hand  from  his  face,  looked  at  him 
with  a  remarkable  expression  of  pity  and  tenderness,  and  took 
him  by  the  hand  and  shook  it  hard. 

"No,  thank'ee,"  saitl  the  Captain.  "Nothing.  Only  I'll 
take  it  as  a  favor  if  you'll  jiart  company  for  the  present.  I  be- 
lieve,  brother,"  wringing  his  hand  again,  "  that,  after  Wal'r, 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  FLORENCE.  645 

and   on   a   different    model,   you're    as   good   a   lad    as   ever 
stepped."' 

"  Upon  my  word  and  honor,  Captain  Gills,'"  returned  Mr. 
TootSj  giving  the  Captain's  hand  a  preliminary  slap  before  shak- 
ing it  again,  "  it's  delightful  to  me  to  possess  your  good  opinion. 
Thank'ee." 

"  And  bear  a  hand  and  cheer  up,"  said  the  Captain,  pat- 
ting him  on  the  back.  "  What !  There's  more  than  one  sweet 
creetur  in  the  world  !  " 

"  Not  to  me,  Captain  Gills,"  replied  Mr.  Toots  gravely. 
"  Not  to  me,  I  assure  you.  The  state  of  my  feelings  towards 
Miss  Dombey  is  of  that  unspeakable  description,  that  my  heart 
is  a  desert  island,  and  she  lives  in  it  alone.  I'm  getting  more 
used  up  every  day,  and  I'm  proud  to  be  so.  If  you  could  see 
my  legs  when  I  take  my  boots  off,  you'd  form  some  idea  of 
what  unrequited  affection  is.  I  have  been  prescribed  bark, 
but  I  don't  take  it,  for  I  don't  wish  to  have  any  tone  whatever 
given  to  my  constitution.  I'd  rather  not.  This,  however,  is 
forbidden  ground.     Captain  Gills,  good-by  !  " 

Captain  Cuttle  cordially  reciprocating  the  warmth  of  Mr. 
Toots's  farewell,  locked  the  door  behind  him,  and  shaking  his 
head  with  the  same  remarkable  expression  of  pity  and  tender- 
ness as  he  Jiad  regarded  him  with  before,  went  up  to  see  if 
Florence  wanted  him. 

There  was  an  entire  change  in  the  Captain's  face  as  he 
went  up  stairs.  He  wiped  his  eyes  with  his  handkerchief,  and 
he  polished  the  bridge  of  his  nose  with  his  sleeve  as  he  had 
done  already  that  morning,  but  his  face  was  absolutely  changed. 
Now,  he  might  have  been  thought  supremely  happy ;  now,  he 
might  have  been  thought  sad ;  but  the  kind  of  gravity  that  sat 
upon  his  features  was  quite  new  to  them,  and  was  as  great  an 
improvement  to  them  as  if  they  had  undergone  some  sublima- 
ting process. 

He  knocked  softly,  with  his  hook,  at  Florence's  door,  twice 
or  thrice  ;  but,  receiving  no  answer,  ventured  first  to  peep  in, 
and  then  to  enter  ;  emboldened  to  take  the  latter  step,  perhaps 
by  the  familiar  recognition  of  Diogenes,  who,  stretched  upon 
the  ground  by  the  side  of  her  couch,  wagged  his  tail,  and 
winked  his  eyes  at  the  Captain,  without  being  at  the  trouble  of 
getting  up. 

She  was  sleeping  heavily,  and  moaning  in  her  sleep ;  and 
Captain  Cuttle,  with  a  perfect  awe  of  her  youth  and  beauty, 
and  her  sorrow,  raised  her  head,  and  adjusted  the  coat  that 
ppvered  her,  wh^re  it  had  fallen  off,  and  darkened  the  window 


646  DOME EY  AND  SON. 

a  little  more  that  she  m"u;ht  sleep  on,  and  crept  out  again,  and 
took  his  post  of  watch  upon  the  stairs.  All  this,  with  a  touch 
and  tread  as  light  as  Florence's  own. 

Long  may  it  remain  in  this  mixed  world  a  point  not  easj 
of  decision,  which  is  the  more  beautiful  evidence  of  the  Al- 
mighty's goodness — the  delicate  fingers  that  are  formed  for 
sensitiveness  and  sympathy  of  touch,  and  made  to  minister  to 
pain  and  grief,  or  the  rough,  hard,  Captain  Cuttle  hand,  that  the 
heart  teaches,  guides,  and  softens  in  a  moment  ! 

Florence  slept  upon  her  couch,  forgetful  of  her  homeless- 
ness  and  orphanage,  and  Captain  Cuttle  watched  upon  the 
stairs.  A  louder  sob  or  moan  than  usual,  brought  him  some- 
times to  her  door ;  but  by  degrees  she  slept  more  peacefully, 
and  the  Captain's  watch  was  undisturbed. 


CHAPTER  XLIX. 

.  THE   MIDSHIPMAN    MAKES    A    DISCOVERY. 

It  was  long  before  Florence  awoke.  The  day  was  in  its 
prime,  the  day  was  in  its  wane,  and  still,  uneasy  in  mind  and 
body,  she  slept  on  ;  unconscious  of  her  strange  bed,  of  the  noise 
and  turmoil  in  the  street,  and  of  the  light  that  shone  outside 
the  shaded  window.  Perfect  unconsciousness  of  what  had  hap- 
pened in  the  home  that  existed  no  more,  even  the  deep  slumber 
of  exhaustion  could  not  produce.  Some  undefined  and  mourn- 
ful recollection  of  it,  dozing  uneasily  but  never  sleeping,  per- 
vaded all  her  rest.  A  dull  sorrow,  like  a  half-lulled  sense  of 
pain,  was  always  present  to  her  ;  and  her  pale  cheek  was  of- 
tener  wet  with  tears  than  the  honest  Captain,  softly  putting  in 
his  head  from  time  to  time  at  the  half-closed  door,  could  have 
desired  to  see  it. 

The  sun  was  getting  low  in  the  west,  and,  glancing  out  of  a 
red  mist,  pierced  with  its  rays  opposite  loop-holes  and  pieces 
of  fret-work  in  the  spires  of  city  churches,  as  if  with  golden  ar- 
rows that  struck  through  and  through  them — and  far  away 
athwart  the  river  and  its  fiat  banks,  it  was  gleaming  like  a  path 
of  fire — and  out  at  sea  it  was  irradiating  sails  of  ships — and, 
looked  towards,  from  quiet  churchyards,  upon  hill-tops  in  the 
country,  it  was  steeping  distant  prospects  in  a  flush  and  glow 
that  R«'ftmed  to  mingle  earth  and  sky  together  in  one  glorious 


THE  MIDSHIPMAN  MAKES  A  DISCOVERY  647 

suffusion — when  Florence,  opening  her  heavy  eyes,  lay  at  first, 
looking  without  interest  or  recognition  at  the  unfamiliar  walls 
around  her,  and  listening  in  the  same  regardless  manner  to  the 
noises  in  the  street.  But  presently  she  started  up  upon  her 
couch,  gazed  round  with  a  surprised  and  vacant  look,  and  re- 
collected all. 

"  My  pretty,"  said  the  Captain,  knocking  at  the  door, 
"  what  cheer  !  " 

"  Dear  friend,"  cried  Florence,  hurrying  to  him,  "  is  it 
you  ?  " 

The  Captain  felt  so  much  pride  in  the  name,  and  was  so 
pleased  by  the  gleam  of  pleasure  in  her  face,  when  she  saw 
him,  that  he  kissed  his  hook,  by  way  of  reply,  in  speechless 
gratification. 

"  What  cheer,  bright  di'mond  ?  "  said  the  Captain. 

"  I  have  surely  slept  very  long,"  returned  Florence.  "  When 
did  I  come  here  ?     Yesterday  ?  " 

"  This  here  blessed  day,  my  lady  lass,"  replied  the  Cap. 
tain. 

"  Has  there  been  no  night  ?  Is  it  still  day  ?  "  asked  Flor- 
ence. 

"  Getting  on  for  evening  now,  my  pretty,"  said  the  Cap- 
tain, drawing  back  the  curtain  of  the  window.     "  See  !  " 

Florence,  with  her  hand  upon  the  Captain's  arm,  so  sorrow- 
ful and  timid,  and  the  Captain  with  his  rough  face  and  burly 
figure,  so  quietly  protective  of  her,  stood  in  the  rosy  light  of 
the  bright  evening  sky,  without  saying  a  word.  However 
strange  the  form  of  speech  into  which  he  might  have  fashioned 
the  feeling,  if  he  had  had  to  give  it  utterance,  the  Captain  felt, 
as  sensibly  as  the  most  eloquent  of  men  could  have  done,  that 
there  was  something  in  the  tranquil  time  and  in  its  softened 
beauty  that  would  make  the  wounded  heart  of  Florence  over- 
flow ;  and  that  it  was  better  that  such  tears  should  have  their 
way.  So  not  a  word  spake  Captain  Cuttle.  But  when  he  felt 
his  arm  clasped,  closer,  and  when  he  felt  the  lonely  head  come 
nearer  to  it,  and  lay  itself  against  his  homely  coarse  blue  sleeve, 
he  pressed  it  gently  with  his  rugged  hand,  and  understood  it, 
and  was  understood. 

"  Better  now,  my  pretty  !  "  said  the  Captain.  "  Cheerily, 
cheerily  ;  I'll  go  down  below,  and  get  some  dinner  ready.  Will 
you  come  down  of  your  own  self,  arterwards,  pretty,  or  shall 
Ed'ard  Cuttle  come  and  fetch  you  ?  " 

As  Florence  assured  him  that  she  was  quite  able  to  walk 
down  stairs,  the  Captain,  though  evidently  doubtful  of  his  own 


648  DOMBE^  AND  SOX. 

hospitality  in  perniitlin<j  it,  left  her  to  do  so.  and  immediately 
set  about  roasting  a  fowl  at  the  fire  in  the  little  parlor.  To 
achieve  his  cookery  with  the  greater  skill,  he  pulled  off  his 
coat,  tucked  up  his  wristbands,  and  put  on  his  glazed  hat, 
without  which  assistant  he  never  applied  himself  to  any  nice  or 
difficult  undertaking. 

After  cooling  her  aching  head  and  burning  face  in  the  fresh 
water  which  the  Captain's  care  had  provided  for  her  while  she 
slept,  Florence  went  to  the  little  mirror  to  bind  up  her  disor- 
dered hair.  Then  she  knew — in  a  moment,  for  she  shunned  it 
instantly — that  on  her  breast  there  was  the  darkening  mark  of 
an  angry  hand. 

Her  tears  burst  forth  afresh  at  the  sight ;  she  was  ashamed 
and  afraid  of  it ;  but  it  moved  her  to  no  anger  against  him. 
Homeless  and  fatherless,  she  forgave  him  ever}'thing  ;  hardly 
thought  that  she  had  need  to  forgive  him,  or  that  she  did  ;  but 
she  fled  from  the  idea  of  him  as  she  had  fled  from  the  reality, 
and  he  was  utterly  gone  and  lost.  There  was  no  such  Being 
in  the  world. 

What  to  do,  or  where  to  live,  Florence — poor,  inexperienced 
girl  ! — could  not  yet  consider.  She  had  indistinct  dreams  of 
finding,  a  long  way  off,  some  little  sisters  to  instruct,  who  would 
be  gentler  with  her,  and  to  whom,  under  some  feigned  name, 
she  might  attach  herself,  and  who  would  grow  up  in  their  happy 
home,  and  marry,  and  be  good  to  their  old  governess,  and  per- 
haps intnist  her,  in  time,  with  the  education  of  their  own 
daughters.  And  she  thought  how  strange  and  sorrowful  it 
would  be,  thus  to  become  a  gray-haired  woman,  carrying  her 
secret  to  the  grave,  when  Florence  Dombey  was  forgotten. 
But  it  was  all  dim  and  clouded  to  her  now.  She  only  knew 
that  she  had  no  Father  upon  earth,  and  she  said  so,  many 
times,  with  her  suppliant  head  hidden  from  all  but  her  Father 
who  was  in  Heaven. 

Her  little  stock  of  money  amounted  to  but  a  few  guineas. 
With  a  part  of  this,  it  would  be  necessary  to  buy  some  clothes, 
for  she  had  none  but  those  she  wore.  She  was  too  desolate  to 
think  how  soon  her  money  would  be  gone — too  much  a  child 
in  worldly  matters  to  be  greatly  troubled  on  that  score  yet, 
even  if  her  other  trouble  had  been  less.  She  tried  to  calm 
her  thoughts  and  stay  her  tears  ;  to  quiet  the  hurry  in  her 
throbbing  head,  and  bring  herself  to  believe  that  what  had 
happened  were  but  the  events  of  a  few  hours  ago,  instead  of 
weeks  or  months,  as  tliey  appeared  ;  and  went  down  to  hei 
kind  protector. 


THE  MIDSHIPMAN  MAKES  A  DISCOVERY.  649 

The  Captain  had  spread  the  cloth  with  great  care,  and  was 
making  some  egg-sauce  in  a  little  saucepan ;  basting  the  fowl 
from  time  to  time  during  the  process  with  a  strong  interest,  as 
it  turned  and  browned  on  a  string  before  the  fire.  Having 
propped  Florence  up  with  cushions  on  the  sofa,  which  was 
already  wheeled  into  a  warm  corner  for  her  greater  comfort,  the 
Captain  pursued  his  cooking  with  extraordinary  skill,  making 
hot  gravy  in  a  second  little  saucepan,  boiling  a  handful  of 
potatoes  in  a  third,  never  forgetting  the  egg-sauce  in  the  first, 
and  making  an  impartial  round  of  basting  and  stirring  with  the 
most  useful  of  spoons  every  minute.  Besides  these  cares,  the 
Captain  had  to  keep  his  eye  on  a  diminutive  frying-pan,  in 
which  some  sausages  were  hissing  and  bubbling  in  a  most 
musical  manner ;  and  there  was  never  such  a  radiant  cook  as 
the  Captain  looked,  in  the  height  and  heat  of  these  functions  • 
it  being  impossible  to  say  whether  his  face  or  his  glazed  hat 
shone  the  brighter. 

The  dinner  being  at  length  quite  ready,  Captain  Cuttle 
dished  and  served  it  up,  with  no  less  dexterity  than  he  had 
cooked  it.  He  then  dressed  for  dinner,  by  taking  off  his 
glazed  hat  and  putting  on  his  coat.  That  done,  he  wheeled 
the  table  close  against  Florence  on  the  sofa,  said  grace,  un- 
screwed his  hook,  screwed  his  fork  into  its  place,  and  did  the 
honors  of  the  table. 

"  My  lady  lass,"  said  the  Captain,  "  cheer  up,  and  try  to 
eat  a  deal.  Stand  by,  my  deary  !  Liver  wing  it  is.  Sarse  it 
is.  Sassage  it  is.  And  potato  !  "  all  which  the  Captain  ranged 
symmetrically  on  a  plate,  and  pouring  hot  gravy  on  the  whole 
with  the  useful  spoon,  set  before  his  cherished  guest. 

"  The  whole  row  o'  dead  lights  is  up,  for'ard,  lady  lass," 
observed  the  Captain,  encouragingly,  "  and  everythink  is  made 
snug.     Try  and  pick  a  bit,  my  pretty.     If  Wal'r  was  here — " 

"  Ah  !     If  I  had  him  for  my  brother  now  !  "  cried  Florence. 

"  Don't  !  don't  take  on,  my  pretty !  "  said  the  Captain. 
"  awast  to  obleege  me  !  He  was  your  nat'ral  born  friend  like, 
warn't  he.  Pet }  " 

Florence  had  no  words  to  answer  with.  She  only  said, 
*'  Oh,  dear,  dear  Paul !  oh  Walter  !  " 

"  The  wery  planks  she  walked  on,"  murmured  the  Captain, 
looking  at  her  drooping  face,  "  was  as  high  esteemed  by  Wal'r, 
as  the  water  brooks  is  by  the  hart  which  never  rejices  !  I  see 
him  now,  the  wery  day  as  he  was  rated  on  them  Dombey 
books,  a  speaking  of  her  with  his  face  a  glistening  with  doo^ 
leastways  with  his  modest  sentmicnts — like  a  new  blowed  rose, 


650  DOMBF  Y  AND  SON. 

at  dinner.  Well,  well !  If  our  poor  Wal'r  was  here,  my  lad) 
lass — or  if  he  could  be — for  he's  drownded,  an't  he  ?  " 

Florence  shook  her  head. 

"  Yes,  yes  ;  drownded,"  said  the  Captain,  soothingly  ;  "as 
I  was  saying,  if  he  could  be  here  he'd  beg  and  pray  of  you,  my 
precious,  to  pick  a  leetle  bit,  with  a  look-out  for  your  own 
sweet  health.  Whereby,  hold  your  own,  my  lady  lass,  as  if  it 
was  for  Wal'r's  sake,  and  lay  your  pretty  head  to  the  wind." 

Florence  essayed  to  eat  a  morsel,  for  the  Captain's  pleas- 
ure. The  Captain,  meanwhile,  who  seemed  to  have  quite  for- 
gotten his  own  dinner,  laid  down  his  knife  and  fork,  and  drew 
his  chair  to  the  sofa. 

"Wal'r  was  a  trim  lad,  warn't  he,  precious.^"  said  the 
Captain,  after  sitting  for  some  time  silently  rubbing  his  chin, 
with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  her,  "  and  a  brave  lad,  and  a  good 
lad  ?  " 

Florence  tearfully  assented. 

"  And  he's  drownded.  Beauty,  an't  he.?"  said  the  Captain, 
in  a  soothing  voice.     Florence  could  not  but  assent  again. 

"  He  was  older  than  you,  my  lady  lass,"  pursued  the  Cap 
tain,  "  but  you  was  like  two  children  together,  at  first ;  warn't 
you  ? " 

Florence  answered  "Yes." 

"And  Wal'r's  drownded,"  said  the  Captain.     "An't  he?" 

The  repetition  of  this  inquiry  was  a  curious  source  of  con- 
solation, but  it  seemed  to  be  one  to  Captain  Cuttle,  for  he 
came  back  to  it  again  and  again.  Florence,  fain  to  push  from 
her  her  untasted  dinner,  and  to  lie  back  on  her  sofa,  gave  him 
her  hand,  feeling  that  she  had  disappointed  him,  thougli  truly 
vvishing  to  have  pleased  him  after  all  his  trouble,  but  lie  held 
jt  in  his  own  (which  shook  as  he  held  it),  and  appearing  to 
have  quite  forgotten  all  about  the  dinner  and  her  want  of 
appetite,  went  on  growling  at  intervals,  in  a  ruminating  tone  of 
sympathy,  "  Poor  Wal'r.  Ay,  ay  !  Drownded.  An't  he  ?  " 
And  always  waited  for  her  answer,  in  which  the  great  point  of 
these  singular  reflections  appeared  to  consist. 

The  fowl  and  sausages  were  cold,  and  the  gravy  and  the 
egg-sauce  stagnant,  before  the  Captain  remembered  that  they 
were  on  the  board,  and  fell  to  with  the  assistance  of  Diogenes, 
whose  united  efforts  quickly  dispatched  the  banquet.  The 
Captain's  delight  and  wonder  at  the  quiet  housewifery  of 
Florence  in  assisting  to  clear  the  t*b]e,  arrange  the  parlor,  and 
sweep  up  the  heartii — only  to  be  eciuallcd  by  the  fervLMicy  of 
bis   protest    when    she    began    to  assist  him — were  gradually 


THE  MfDSnirMAN  MA h'ES  A  DlSi  ( ) / 'AA' ) '.  6^  j 

raised  to  that  clcg;rce,  that  at  last  he  could  not  choose  but  do 
nothing  himself,  and  stand  looking  at  her  as  if  she  were  some 
Fairy,  daintily  performing  these  offices  for  him  ;  the  red  rim 
on  his  forehead  glowing  again,  in  his  unspeakable  admiration. 

J?ut  when  Florence,  taking  down  his  pipe  frcjin  the  mantel- 
shelf, gave  it  into  his  hand,  and  entreated  him  to  smoke  it,  the 
good  Captain  was  so  bewildered  by  her  attentiDii  that  he  held 
it  as  if  he  had  never  held  a  pipe  in  all  his  life.  Likewise,  when 
Florence,  looking  into  the  little  cupboard,  took  out  the  case- 
bottle  and  mixed  a  perfect  glass  of  grog  for  him,  unasketl,  and 
set  it  at  his  elbow,  his  ruddy  nose  turned  pale,  he  felt  himself 
so  graced  and  honoretl.  \Vhcn  he  had  filled  his  pipe  in  an 
absolute  reverie  of  satisfaction,  I'lorence  lighted  it  for  him — 
the  Captain  having  no  power  to  object,  or  to  prevent  her — and 
resuming  her  pla''e  on  the  old  sofa,  looked  at  him  with  a  smile 
so  loving  and  so  grateful,  a  smile  that  showed  him  so  plainly 
how  her  forlorn  heart  turned  to  him,  as  her  face  did,  through 
grief,  that  th.e  smoke  of  the  pipe  got  into  the  Captain's  throat 
and  made  him  cough,  and  got  in  the  Captain's  eyes,  and  made 
them  l)link  and  water. 

The  manner  in  which  the  Captain  tried  to  make  believe 
that  the  cause  of  these  effects  lay  hidden  in  the  pipe  itself,  and 
the  way  in  which  he  looked  into  the  bowl  for  it,  and  not  find- 
ing it  there,  pretended  to  blow  it  out  of  the  stem,  was  wonder- 
fully pleasant.  The  pipe  soon  getting  into  better  condition,  he 
fell  into  that  state  of  repose  becoming  a  good  smoker;  but  sat 
with  his  eyes  lixetl  on  Florence,  and,  with  a  beaming  placidity 
not  to  be  described,  and  stopping  every  now  and  then  to  dis- 
charge a  little  cloud  from  his  lips,  slowly  puffed  it  forth,  as  if 
it  were  a  scroll  coming  out  of  his  mouth,  bearing  the  legend 
"  Poor  Wal'r,  ay,  ay.  Drownded,  an't  he .-'  "  after  which  he 
would  resume  his  smoking  with  infinite  gentleness. 

Unlike  as  they  were  externally — and  there  could  scarcely 
be  a  more  decided  contrast  than  between  Florence  in  her  deli 
cate  youth  and  beauty,  and  Captain  Cuttle  with  his  knobby 
face,  his  great  broad  weather-beaten  person,  and  his  gruft 
voice — in  simple  innocence  of  the  world's  ways  and  the  world's 
perplexities  and  dangers,  they  were  nearly  on  a  level.  No 
child  could  have  surpassed  Captain  Cuttle  in  experience 
of  everything  but  wind  and  weatiier ;  in  simplicity,  credulity, 
and  generous  trustfulness.  Faith,  hope,  and  cliarity,  shared 
his  whole  nature  among  them.  An  odd  sort  of  romance,  per- 
fectly unimaginative,  yet  perfectly  unreal,  and  subject  to  no  con- 
siderations of  worldly  orudence  or  practicability,  was  the  only 


0-2  DOMBE  Y  A  XD  SON. 

partner  they  had  in  his  character.  As  the  Captain  sat,  and 
smoked,  and  looked  at  Florence,  God  knows  what  impossible 
pictures,  in  which  she  was  the  principal  figure,  presented  them- 
selves to  his  mind.  Equally  vague  and  uncertain,  though  not 
so  sanguine,  were  her  own  thoughts  of  the  life  before  lier  ;  and 
even  as  her  tears  made  prismatic  colors  in  the  light  she  gazed 
at,  so,  through  her  new  and  heavy  grief,  she  already  saw  a 
rainbow  faintly  shining  in  the  far-off  sky.  A  wandering  prin- 
cess and  a  good  monster  in  a  story-book  might  have  sat  by 
the  fireside,  and  talked  as  Captain  Cuttle  and  poor  Florence 
thought — and  not  have  looked  very  much  unlike  them. 

The  Captain  was  not  troubled  with  the  faintest  idea  of  any 
difficulty  in  retaining  Florence,  or  of  any  responsibility  thereby 
incurred.  Having  put  up  the  shutters  and  locked  the  door,  he 
was  quite  satisfied  on  this  head.  Jf  she  had  been  a  Ward  in 
Chancery,  it  would  have  made  no  difference  at  all  to  Captain 
Cuttle.  He  was  the  last  man  in  the  world  to  be  troubled  by 
any  such  considerations. 

So  the  Captain  smoked  his  pipe  very  comfortably,  and 
Florence  and  he  meditated  after  their  own  manner.  When 
the  pipe  was  out,  they  had  some  tea ;  and  then  Florence  en- 
treated him  to  take  her  to  some  neighboring  shop,  where  she 
could  buy  the  necessaries  she  immediately  wanted.  It  being 
quite  dark,  the  Captain  consented  :  peeping  carefully  out  first, 
as  he  had  been  wont  to  do  in  his  time  of  hiding  from  Mrs. 
MacStinger  ;  and  arming  himself  with  his  large  stick,  in  case 
of  an  appeal  to  arms  being  rendered  necessary  by  any  unfore- 
seen circumstance. 

The  pride  Captain  Cuttle  had,  in  giving  his  arm  to  Flor- 
ence, and  escorting  her  some  two  or  three  hundred  yards, 
keeping  a  bright  look-out  all  the  time,  and  attracting  the  atten- 
tion of  every  one  who  passed  them,  by  his  great  vigilance  and 
numerous  precautions,  was  extreme.  Arrived  at  the  shop,  the 
Captain  felt  it  a  point  of  delicacy  to  retire  during  the  making 
of  the  purchases,  as  they  were  to  consist  of  wearing  apparel  ; 
but  he  previously  deposited  his  tin  canister  on  the  counter,  and 
informing  the  young  lady  of  the  establishment  that  it  contained 
fourteen  pound  two,  requested  her,  in  case  that  amount  of 
property  should  not  be  sufficient  to  defray  the  expenses  of  his 
niece's  little  outfit — at  the  word  "niece,"  he  bestowed  a  most 
significant  look  on  Florence,  accompanied  with  pantomime, 
expressive  of  sagacity  and  mystery — to  have  the  goodness  to 
"sing  out,"  and  he  would  make  up  the  difference  from  iiis 
pocket.     Casually  consulting  his  big  watch,  as  a  deep  means 


THE  MIDSHIPMAN  MAK'ES  A  DISCOVKRY.        653 

of  dazzling  the  establishment,  and  impressing  it  with  a  sense  of 
property,  the  Captain  then  kissed  his  hook  to  his  niece,  and 
retired  outside  the  window,  where  it  was  a  choice  sight  to  see 
his  great  face  looking  in  from  time  to  time,  among  the  silks  and 
ribbons,  with  an  obvious  misgiving  that  Florence  had  been 
spirited  away  by  a  back  door. 

"  Dear  Captain  Cuttle,"  said  Florence,  when  she  came  out 
with  a  parcel,  the  size  of  which  greatly  disappointed  the  Cap- 
tain, who  had  expected  to  see  a  porter  following  with  a  bale  of 
goods,  "  I  don't  want  this  money,  indeed.  I  have  not  spent 
any  of  it.     I  have  money  of  my  own." 

"  My  lady  lass,"  returned  the  baffled  Captain,  looking 
straight  down  the  street  before  them,  "  take  care  on  it  for  me, 
will  you  be  so  good,  till  such  time  as  I  ask  ye  for  it  1 " 

"  May  I  put  it  back  in  its  usual  place,"  said  Florence,  "and 
keep  it  there  ?  " 

The  Captain  was  not  at  all  gratified  by  this  proposal,  but 
he  answered,  "  Ay,  ay,  put  it  anywhere,  my  lady  lass,  so  long 
as  you  know  where  to  find  it  again.  It  ain't  o'  no  use  to  me" 
said  the  Captain.  "  I  wonder  .1  haven't  chucked  it  away  afore 
now." 

The  Captain  was  quite  disheartened  for  the  moment,  but 
he  revived  at  the  first  touch  of  Florence's  arm,  and  they  re- 
turned with  the  same  precautions  as  they  had  come  ;  the  Cap- 
tain opening  the  door  of  the  little  Midshipman's  berth,  and 
diving  in,  with  a  suddenness  which  his  great  practice  only  could 
have  taught  him.  During  Florence's  slumber  in  the  morning, 
he  had  engaged  the  daughter  of  an  elderly  lady,  who  usually 
sat  under  a  blue  umbrella  in  Leadenhall  Market,  selling  poul- 
try, to  come  and  put  her  room  in  order,  and  render  her  any 
little  services  she  required  ;  and  this  damsel  now  appearing, 
Florence  found  everything  about  her  as  convenient  and  orderly, 
if  not  as  handsome,  as  in  the  terrible  dream  she  had  once 
called  Home 

When  they  were  alone  again,  the  Captain  insisted  on  her 
eating  a  slice  of  dry  toast,  and  drinking  a  glass  of  spiced  negus 
(which  he  made  to  perfection)  ;  and,  encouraging  her  with 
every  kind  word  and  inconsequential  quotation  he  could  pos- 
sibly think  of,  led  her  up-stairs  to  her  bedroom.  But  he,  too, 
had  something  on  his  mind,  and  was  not  easy  in  his  manner. 

'•  Good-night,  dear  heart,"  said  Captain  Cuttle  to  her  at  her 
chamber-door. 

Florence  raised  her  lips  to  his  face,  and  kissed  him. 

At  any  other  time  the  Captain  would  have  been  overbal- 


^54  bOMnE  Y  A. YD  SOX 

anced  by  such  a  token  of  her  affection  and  gratitude ;  but  now, 
although  he  was  very  sensible  of  it,  he  looked  in  her  face  with 
even  more  uneasiness  than  he  had  testified  before,  and  seemed 
unwilling  to  leave  her. 

"Poor  VVal'r  !  "  said  the  Captain. 

"  Poor,  poor  Walter  !  "  sighed  Florence. 

"  Drownded,  an't  he  .''  "  said  the  Captain. 

Florence  shook  her  head,  and  sighed. 

"  Good-night,  my  lady  lass !  "  said  Captain  Cuttle,  puttiii*; 
out  his  hand. 

"  God  bless  you,  dear,  kind  friend  ! " 

But  the  Captain  lingered  still. 

"  Is  anything  the  matter,  dear  Captain  Cuttle  ?  "  said  Flor- 
ence, easily  alarmed  in  her  then  state  of  mind.  "  Have  you 
anything  to  tell  me  ?  " 

"  To  tell  you,  lady  lass  !  "  replied  the  Captain,  meeting  hei 
eyes  in  confusion.  "  No,  no  ;  what  should  I  have  to  tell  you, 
pretty  !  You  don't  expect  as  I've  got  anything  good  to  tell  you, 
sure  ?  " 

*'  No  !  "  said  Florence,  shaking  her  head. 

The  Captain  looked  at  her  wistfully,  and  repeated  "  No," — ■ 
jStill  lingering,  and  still  showing  embarrassment. 

"  Poor  Wal'r  !  "  said  the  Captain.  "  My  Wal'r,  as  I  used 
to  call  you  !  Old  Sol  Gills's  nevy  !  Welcome  to  all  as  knowed 
you,  as  the  flowers  in  May !  Where  are  you  got  to,  brave  boy  ! 
Drownded,  an't  he  ?  " 

Concluding  his  apostrophe  with  this  abrupt  appeal  to  Flor- 
ence, the  Captain  bade  her  good-night,  and  descended  the  stairs, 
while  Florence  remained  at  the  top,  holding  a  Cindle  out  to 
light  him  down.  He  was  lost  in  the  obscurity,  and.  judging 
from  the  sound  of  his  receding  footsteps,  was  in  the  act  of  turn- 
ing into  the  little  parlor,  when  his  head  and  shoulders  unex- 
pectedly emerged  again,  as  from  tlie  deep,  apparently  for  no 
other  purpose  than  to  repeat,  "  Drownded,  an't  he,  pretty  ?  " 
For  when  he  had  said  that  in  a  tone  of  tender  condolence,  he 
disappeared. 

Florence  was  very  sorry  that  she  should  unwittingly,  though 
naturally,  have  awakened  these  associations  in  the  mind  of  hev 
protector,  by  taking  refuge  there  ;  and  sitting  down  before  the 
little  table  where  the  Captain  had  arranged  the  telescope  and 
song-book,  and  those  other  rarities,  thought  of  Walter,  and  of 
all  tliatwas  connected  with  him  in  the  past,  until  she  could  la'f 
almost  wished  to  lie  down  on  her  bed  and  fade  away.  But  ii 
bcr  lonely  yearning  to  the  dead  whom  she  had  loved,  no  though. 


THE  MIDSHIPMAN  MAKES  A  DlSCOVEkV. 


<^55 


Ot  home — no  possibility  of  going  back — no  presentation  of  it 
as  yet  existing,  or  sheltering  her  father  —  once  entered  her 
thoughts.  She  had  seen  the  murder  done.  In  the  last  linger- 
ing natural  aspect  in  which  she  had  cherished  him  through  so 
much,  he  had  been  torn  out  of  her  heart,  defaced,  and  slain. 
The  thought  of  it  was  so  appalling  to  her,  that  she  covered  her 
eyes,  and  shrunk  trembling  from  the  least  remembrance  of  the 
deed,  or  of  the  cruel  hand  that  did  it.  If  her  fond  heart  could 
have  held  his  image  after  that,  it  must  have  broken  ;  but  it  could 
not ;  and  the  void  was  filled  with  a  wild  dread  that  fled  from  all 
confronting  with  its  shattered  fragments — with  such  a  dread  as 
could  have  risen»out  of  nothing  but  the  depths  of  such  a  love, 
so  wronged. 

She  dared  not  look  into  the  glass  ;  for  the  sight  of  the  darken- 
ing mark  upon  her  bosom  made  her  afraid  of  herself,  as  if  she 
bore  about  her  something  wicked.  She  covered  it  up  with  a 
hasty,  faltering  hand,  and  in  the  dark  ;  and  laid  her  weary  head 
down,  weeping. 

The  Captain  did  not  go  to  bed  for  a  long  time.  He  walked 
to  and  fro  in  the  shop  and  in  the  little  parlor,  for  a  full  hour, 
and,  appearing  to  have  composed  himself  by  that  exercise,  sat 
down  with  a  grave  and  thoughtful  face,  and  read  out  of  a  Prayer- 
book  the  forms  of  prayer  appointed  to  be  used  at  sea.  These 
were  not  easily  disposed  of;  the  good  Captain  being  a  mighty 
slow,  gruff  reader,  and  frequently  stopping  at  a  hard  word  to 
give  himself  such  encouragement  as  "  Now,  my  lad  !  With  a 
will  !  "  or,  "  Steady,  Ed'ard  Cuttle,  steady  !  "  which  had  a  great 
effect  in  helping  him  out  of  any  difficulty.  Moreover,  his  spec- 
tacles greatly  interfered  with  his  powers  of  vision.  But  not- 
withstanding these  drawbacks,  the  Captain,  being  heartily  in  ear- 
nest, read  the  service  to  the  very  last  line,  and  with  genuine 
feeling  too ;  and  approving  of  it  very  much  when  he  had  done, 
turned  in  under  the  counter  (but  not  before  he  had  been  up 
stairs,  and  listened  at  Florence's  door),  with  a  serene  breast, 
and  a  most  benevolent  visage. 

The  Captain  turned  out  several  times  in  the  course  of  the 
night,  to  assure  himself  that  his  charge  was  resting  quietly  ;  and 
once,  at  daybreak,  found  that  she  was  awake  ;  for  she  called  to 
know  if  it  were  he,  on  hearing  footsteps  near  her  door. 

"  Yes,  my  lady  lass,"  replied  the  Captain,  in  a  growJing 
whisper.     "  Aie  you  all  right,  di'mond  ?  " 

Florence  thanked  him,  and  said  "  Yes." 

The  Captain  could  not  lose  so  favorable  an  opportunity  o! 
applying  his  mouth  to  the  keyhole,  and  calling  through  it,  like 


6$G  DOMbev  and  iiON. 

a  hoarse  breeze,  "  Poor  Wal'r  !  Drownded,  an't  he  ?  "  Aftei 
which  he  withdrew,  and  turning  in  again,  slept  till  seven  o'clock. 

Nor  was  he  free  from  his  uneasy  and  embarrassed  manner 
all  that  day  ;  though  Florence,  being  busy  with  her  needle  in  the 
little  parlor,  was  more  calm  and  tranquil  than  she  had  been  on 
the  day  preceding.  Almost  always  when  she  raised  her  eyes 
from  her  work,  she  observed  the  Captain  looking  at  her,  and 
thoughtfully  stroking  his  chin  ;  and  he  so  often  hitched  his  arm- 
chair close  to  her  as  if  he  were  going  to  say  something  very 
confidential,  and  hitched  it  away  again,  as  not  being  able  to 
make  up  his  mind  how  to  begin,  that  in  the  course  of  the  day 
he  cruised  completely  round  the  parlor  in  that  frail  bark,  and 
more  than  once  went  ashore  against  the  wainscot  or  the  closet 
door,  in  a  very  distressed  condition. 

It  was  not  until  the  twilight  that  Captain  Cuttle,  fairly  drop- 
ping anchor,  at  last,  by  the  side  of  Florence,  began  to  talk  at 
all  connectedly.  But  when  the  light  of  the  fire  was  shining  on 
the  walls  and  ceiling  of  the  little  room,  and  on  the  tea-board  and 
the  cups  and  saucers  that  were  ranged  upon  the  table,  and  on  her 
calm  face  turned  towards  the  flame,  and  reflecting  it  in  the  tears 
that  filled  her  eyes,  the  Captain  broke  a  long  silence  thus  : 

"  You  never  was  at  sea,  my  own  "i  " 

"  No,"  replied  Florence. 

"  Ay,"  said  the  Captain,  reverentially ;  "  it's  a  almighty 
element.  There's  wonders  in  the  deep,  my  pretty.  Think  on 
it  when  the  winds  is  roaring  and  the  waves  is  rowling.  Think 
on  it  when  the  stormy  nights  is  so  pitch  dark,"  said  the  Captain, 
solemnly  holding  up  his  hook,  "  as  you  can't  see  your  hand  afore 
you,  excepting  when  the  wiwid  lightning  reweals  the  same  ;  and 
when  you  drive,  drive,  drive  through  the  storm  and  dark,  as  if 
you  was  a  driving,  head  on,  to  the  world  without  end,  evermore, 
amen,  and  when  found  making  a  note  of.  Them's  the  times, 
my  beauty,  when  a  man  may  say  to  his  messmate  (previously  a 
overhauling  of  the  wolume), '  A  stiff  nor-wester's  blowing.  Bill ; 
hark,  don't  you  hear  it  roar  now  !  Lord  help  'em,  how  I  pities' 
all  unhappy  folks  ashore  now  I  '  "  Which  quotation,  as  particu- 
larly applicable  to  the  terrors  of  the  ocean,  the  Captain  deliv- 
ered in  a  most  impressive  manner,  concluding  with  a  sonorous 
"  Stand  by !  " 

"  Werejou  ever  in  a  dreadful  storm  }"  asked  Florence. 

"  Why  ay,  my  lady  lass,  I've  seen  my  share  of  bad  weather," 
said  the  Captain,  tremulously  wiping  his  head,  "  and  I've  had 
my  share  of  a  knocking  about ;  but— but  it  an't  of  myself  as  I 
was  a  meaning  to  speak.  Our  dear  boy,"  drawing  closer  to  her, 
"  Wal'r,  darling,  as  was  drownded." 


THE  MIDSHIPMAN  MAKES  A  DISCOVERY.  657 

The  Captain  spoke  in  such  a  trembling  voice,  and  looked  at 
Florence  with  a  face  so  pale  and  agitated,  that  she  clung  to  his 
hand  in  affright. 

"  Your  face  is  changed,"  cried  Florence.  "  You  are  altered 
in  a  moment.  What  is  it  t  Dear  Captain  Cuttle,  it  turns  me 
cold  to  see  you !  " 

"What!  Lady  lass,"  returned  the  Captain,  supporting  her 
with  his  hand,  "  don't  be  took  aback.  No,  no  !  All's  well,  all's 
well,  my  dear.  As  I  was  a  saying — Wal'r — he's — he's  drownded. 
An't  he  .?  " 

Florence  looked  at  him  intently ;  her  color  came  and  went ; 
and  she  laid  her  hand  upon  her  breast. 

"  There's  perils  and  dangers  on  the  deep,  my  beauty,"  said 
the  Captain  ;  "  and  over  many  a  brave  ship,  and  many  and 
many  a  bould  heart,  the  secret  waters  has  closed  up,  and  never 
told  no  tales.  But  there's  escapes  upon  the  deep,  too,  and 
sometimes  one  man  out  of  a  score, — ah  !  may  be  out  of  a  hun- 
dred, pretty, — has  been  saved  by  the  mercy  of  God,  and  come 
home  after  being  given  over  for  dead,  and  told  of  all  hands 
lost.  I — I  know  a  story,  Heart's  Delight,"  stammered  the 
Captain,  "  o'  this  natur,  as  was  told  to  me  once :  and  being  on 
this  here  tack,  and  you  and  me  sitting  alone  by  the  fire,  maybe 
you'd  like  to  hear  me  tell  it.     Would  you,  deary  ?  " 

Florence,  trembling  with  an  agitation  which  she  could  not 
control  or  understand,  involuntarily  followed  his  glance,  which 
went  behind  her  into  the  shop,  where  a  lamp  was  burning.  The 
instant  that  she  turned  her  head,  the  Captain  sprung  out  of  his 
chair,  and  interposed  his  hand. 

"  There's  nothing  there,  my  beauty,"  said  the  Captain. 
"  Don't  look  there." 

"  Why  not  ?  "  asked  Florence. 

The  Captain  murmured  something  about  its  being  dull  that 
way,  and  about  the  fire  being  cheerful.  He  drew  the  door 
ajar,  which  had  been  standing  open  until  now,  and  resumed  his 
seat.  Florence  followed  him  with  her  eyes,  and  looked  intently 
in  his  face. 

"  The  stor}'  was  about  a  ship,  my  lady  lass,"  began  the  Cap- 
tain, "  as  sailed  out  of  the  Port  of  London,  with  a  fair  wind  and 
in  fair  weather,  bound  for — don't  be  took  aback,  my  lady  lass, 
she  was  only  out'ard  bound,  pretty,  only  out'ard  bound  !  " 

The  expression  on  Florence's  face  alamied  the  Captain, 
who  was  himself  very  hot  and  flurried,  and  showed  scarcely  less 
agitation  than  she  did. 

"  Shall  I  go  on,  Beauty  ?  "  said  the  Captain. 


658  DOMBEY  AXD  SON. 

"  Yes,  yes,  pray !  "  cried  Florence. 

The  Captain  made  a  gulp  as  if  to  get  down  something  that 
was  sticking  in  his  throat,  and  nervously  proceeded  : 

"  That  there  unfort'nate  ship  met  with  such  foul  weather, 
out  at  sea,  as  don't  blow  once  in  twenty  year,  my  darling. 
There  was  hurricanes  ashore  as  tore  up  forests  and  blowed 
down  towns,  and  there  was  gales  at  sea  in  them  latitudes,  as 
not  the  stoutest  wessel  ever  launched  couM  live  in.  Day  arter 
day  that  there  unfort'nate  sliip  behaved  noble,  I'm  told,  and 
did  her  duty  brave,  my  pretty,  but  at  one  blow  a'most  her  bul- 
warks was  stove  in,  her  masts  and  rudder  carried  away,  her 
best  men  swept  overboard,  and  she  left  to  the  mercy  of  the 
storm  as  had  no  mercy  but  blowed  harder  and  harder  yet, 
while  the  waves  dashed  over  her,  and  beat  her  in,  and  every 
time  they  come  a  thundering  at  her,  broke  her  like  a  shell. 
Every  black  spot  -n  every  mountain  of  water  that  rolled  away 
was  a  bit  o'  the  ship's  life  or  a  living  man,  and  so  she  went  to 
pieces,  Beauty,  and  no  grass  will  never  grow  upon  the  graves 
of  them  as  manned  that  ship." 

"  They  were  not  all  lost !  "  cried  Florence.  "  Some  were 
saved  ! — Was  one  .-'  " 

"  Aboard  o'  that  there  unfort'nate  wessel,"  said  the  Captain, 
rising  from  his  chair,  and  clenching  his  hand  with  prodigious 
energy  and  exultation,  "was  a  lad,  a  gallant  lad — as  I've  heard 
tell — that  had  loved,  when  he  was  a  boy,  to  read  and  talk  about 
brave  actions  in  shipwrecks — I've  heerd  him  !  I've  heerd  him  ! 
— and  he  remembered  of  'em  in  his  hour  of  need  ;  for  when  the 
stoutest  hearts  and  oldest  hands  was  hove  down,  he  was  firm 
and  cheery.  It  warn't  the  want  of  objects  to  like  and  love 
ashore  that  gave  him  courage,  it  was  liis  nat'ral  mind.  I've 
seen  it  in  his  face,  when  he  was  no  more  than  a  child — ay, 
many  a  time  ! — and  when  I  thought  it  nothing  but  his  good 
looks,  bless  him  !  " 

"  And  was  he  saved  t  "  cried  Florence.     "  Was  he  saved  ,?  " 

"  That  brave  lad,"  said  the  Captain, — "  look  at  me,  pretty  ! 
Don't  look  round — " 

Florence  had  hardly  power  to  repeat,  "  Why  not  ?  " 

"  Because  there's  nothing  there,  my  deary,"  said  the  Cap- 
tain. "Don't  be  took  aback,  pretty  creetur !  Don't,  for  the 
sake  of  Wal'r,  as  was  dear  to  all  on  us  !  That  there  lad,"  said 
the  Captain,  "arter  working  with  the  best,  and  standing  by  the 
faint-hearted,  and  never  making  no  complaint  nor  sign  of  fear, 
and  keeping  up  a  spirit  in  all  hands  that  made  'em  honor  him 
as  if  he'd  been  a  aduiiial — that  lad.  along  with  the  second  mate 


THE  MIDSHIPMAN  MAKES  A  DISCOVERY.  659 

and  one  seaman,  was  left,  of  all  the  beatin'  hearts  that  went 
aboard  that  ship,  the  only  living  creeturs — lashed  to  a  fragment 
of  the  wreck,  and  driftin'  on  the  stormy  sea." 

"  Were  they  saved  ?  "  cried  Florence. 

"  Days  and  nights  they  drifted  on  them  endless  waters," 
said  the  Captain,  "until  at  last  —  no!  don't  look  that  way. 
pretty ! — a  sail  bore  down  upon  'em,  and  they  was,  by  the 
Lord's  mercy,  took  aboard  ;  two  living  and  one  dead." 

"  Which  of  them  was  dead  ?  "  cried  Florence. 

"  Not  the  lad  I  speak  on,"  said  the  Captain. 

"  Thank  God  !  oh  thank  God  !  " 

"  Amen  !  "  returned  the  Captain  hurriedly.  "  Don't  be 
took  aback  !  A  minute  more,  my  lady  lass  !  with  a  good  heart ! 
— aboard  that  ship,  they  went  a  long  voy;ige,  right  away  across 
the  chart  (for  there  warn't  no  touching  nowhere),  and  on  that 
voyage  the  seaman  as  was  picked  up  with  him  died.  But  he 
was  spared,  and " 

The  Captain,  without  knowing  what  he  did,  had  cut  a  slice 
of  bread  from  the  loaf,  and  put  it  on  his  hook  (which  was  his 
usual  toasting-fork),  on  which  he  now  held  it  to  the  fire  ;  look- 
ing behind  Florence  with  great  emotion  in  his  face,  and  suffer- 
ing the  bread  to  blaze  and  burn  like  fuel. 

"Was  spared,"  repeated  Florence,  "and ?" 

"  And  come  home  in  that  ship,"  said  the  Captain,  still 
looking  in  the  same  direction,  "and — don't  be  frightened, 
pretty — and  landed ;  and  one  morning  come  cautiously  to  his 
own  door  to  take  a  obserwation,  knowing  that  his  friends 
would  think  him  drownded,  when  he  sheered  off  at  the  unex- 
pected  " 

"  At  the  unexpected  barking  of  a  dog  ?  "  cried  Florence, 
quickly. 

"  Yes,"  roared  the  Captain.  "  Steady,  darling  !  courage  ! 
Don't  look  round  yet.     See  there  !  upon  the  wall  !  " 

There  was  the  shadow  of  a  man  upon  the  wall  close  to  her. 
She  started  up,  looked  round,  and  with  a  piercing  cry,  saw 
Walter  Gay  behind  her  ! 

She  had  no  thought  of  him  but  as  a  brother,  a  brother 
rescued  from  the  grave  ;  a  shipwrecked  brother  saved  at  her 
side  ;  and  rushed  into  his  arms.  In  all  the  world,  he  seemed 
to  be  her  hope,  her  comfort,  refuge,  natural  protector.  "  Take 
care  of  Walter,  I  was  fond  of  Walter  !  "  The  dear  remem- 
brance of  the  plaintive  voice  that  said  so,  rushed  upon  her  soul, 
like  music  in  the  night.  "  Oh,  welcome  home,  dear  Walter  ! 
Welcome  to  this  stricken  breast !  "     She  felt  the  words,  al- 


66o  DOME EY  AXD  SOX. 

though  she  could  not  utter  them,  and  held  him  in  her  pure  em 
Drace. 

Captain  Cuttle,  in  a  fit  of  delirium,  attempted  to  wipe  his 
head  with  the  blackened  toast  upon  his  hook  ;  and  finding  it 
an  uncongenial  substance  for  the  purpose,  put  it  into  the  crown 
of  his  glazed  hat,  put  the  glazed  hat  on  with  some  difficulty, 
essayed  to  sing  a  verse  of  Lovely  Peg,  broke  down  at  the  first 
word,  and  retired  into  the  shop,  whence  he  presently  came 
back,  express,  with  a  face  all  flushed  and  besmeared,  and  the 
starch  completely  taken  out  of  his  shirt-collar,  to  say  these 
words  : 

"  Wal'r,  my  lad,  here  is  a  little  bit  of  property  as  I  should 
wish  to  make  over,  jintly  !  " 

The  Captain  hastily  produced  the  big  watch,  the  tea-spoons, 
the  sugar-tongs,  and  the  canister,  and  laying  them  on  the  table, 
swept  them  with  his  great  hand  into  Walter's  hat ;  but  in  hand- 
ing that  singular  strong  box  to  Walter,  he  was  so  overcome 
again,  that  he  was  fain  to  make  another  retreat  into  the  shop, 
and  absent  himself  for  a  longer  space  of  time  than  on  his  first 
retirement. 

But  Walter  sought  him  out,  and  brought  him  back ;  and 
then  the  Captain's  great  apprehension  was,  that  Florence  would 
suffer  from  this  new  shock.  He  felt  it  so  earnestly,  that  he 
turned  quite  rational,  and  positively  interdicted  any  further 
allusion  to  Walter's  adventures  for  some  days  to  come.  Cap- 
tain Cuttle  then  became  sufficiently  composed  to  relieve  himself 
of  the  toast  in  his  hat,  and  to  take  his  place  at  the  tea-board ; 
but  finding  Walter's  grasp  upon  his  shoulder,  on  one  side,  and 
Florence  whispering  her  tearful  congratulations  on  the  other, 
the  Captain  suddenly  bolted  again,  and  was  missing  for  a  good 
ten  minutes. 

But  never  in  all  his  life  had  the  Captain's  face  so  shone 
and  glistened,  as  when,  at  last,  he  sat  stationary  at  the  tea- 
board,  looking  from  Florence  to  Walter,  and  from  Walter  to 
P'lorence.  Nor  was  this  effect  produced  or  at  all  heightened 
by  the  immense  quantity  of  polishing  he  had  administered  to 
his  face  with  his  coat-sleeve  during  the  last  half-hour.  It  was 
solely  the  effect  of  his  internal  emotions.  There  was  a  glory 
and  delight  within  the  C'aptaiu  that  spread  itself  over  his  whole 
visage,  and  made  a  jxTfect  illumination  there. 

The  pride  with  which  the  Captain  looked  upon  the  bronzed 
cheek  and  the  courageous  eyes  of  his  recovered  boy ;  w  ith 
which  he  saw  the  generous  fervor  of  his  youth,  and  all  its  frank 
and  hopoful  qualities,  shining  once  more,  in  the  fresh,  whole 


THE  MIDSHIPMAN  MAKES  A  DISCOVEkV.         661 

some  manner,  and  the  ardent  face,  would  have  kindled  some- 
thing of  this  light  in  his  countenance.  The  admiration  and 
sympathy  with  which  he  turned  his  eyes  on  Florence,  whose 
beauty,  grace,  and  innocence  could  have  won  no  truer  or  more 
zealous  champion  than  himself,  would  have  had  an  equal  influ- 
ence upon  him.  But  the  fulness  of  the  glow  he  shed  around 
him  could  only  have  been  engendered  in  his  contemplation  of 
the  two  together,  and  in  all  the  fancies  springing  out  of  that 
association,  that  came  sparkling  and  beaming  into  his  head, 
and  danced  about  it. 

How  they  talked  of  poor  old  Uncle  Sol,  and  dwelt  on  every 
little  circumstance  relating  to  his  disappearance  ;  how  their 
joy  was  moderated  by  the  old  man's  absence  and  by  the  mis- 
fortunes of  Florence  ;  how  they  released  Diogenes,  whom  the 
Captain  had  decoyed  up  stairs  some  time  before,  lest  he  should 
bark  again  ;  the  Captain,  though  he  was  in  one  continual 
flutter,  and  made  many  more  short  plunges  into  the  shop,  fully 
comprehended.  But  he  no  more  dreamed  that  Walter  looked 
on  Florence,  as  it  were,  from  a  new  and  far-off  place  ;  that 
while  his  eyes  often  sought  the  lovely  face,  they  seldom  met 
its  open  glance  of  sisterly  affection,  but  withdrew  themselves 
when  hers  were  raised  towards  him  ;  than  he  believed  that  it 
was  Walter's  ghost  who  sat  beside  him.  He  saw  them  there 
together  in  their  youth  and  beauty,  and  he  knew  the  story  of 
their  younger  days,  and  he  had  no  inch  of  room  beneath  his 
great  blue  waistcoat  for  anything  save  admiration  of  such  a 
pair,  and  gratitude  for  their  being  re-vmited. 

They  sat  thus,  until  it  grew  late.  The  Captain  would  have 
been  content  to  sit  so  for  a  week.  But  Walter  rose,  to  take 
leave  for  the  night. 

"  Going,  Walter  !  "  said  Florence.     "  Where  ?  " 

"  He  slings  his  hammock  for  the  present,  lady  lass,"  said 
Captain  Cuttle,  "  round  at  Brogley's.  Within  hail.  Heart's 
Delight." 

"  I  am  the  cause  of  your  going  away,  Walter,"  said  Florence. 
*' There  is  a  houseless  sister  in  your  place." 

"  Dear  Miss  Dombey,"  replied  Walter,  hesitating — "if  it  is 
not  too  bold  to  call  you  so  ! — " 

" — Walter  !  "  she  exclaimed,  surprised. 

"  If  anything  could  make  me  happier  in  being  allowed  to 
.see  and  speak  to  you,  would  it  not  be  the  discovery  that  I  had 
any  means  on  earth  of  doing  you  a  moment's  service  !  Where 
would  I  not  go,  what  would  I  not  do  for  your  sake  ?  " 

She  smiled,  and  called  him  brother. 


662  DOMBEV  AND  SOAT, 

"  You  are  so  changed,"  said  Walter — 

"  I  changed  !  "  she  interrupted. 

"  To  me,'  said  Walter,  softly,  as  if  he  were  thinking  aloud, 
"changed  to  nie.  I  left  you  such  a  child,  and  find  you — oh  I 
sometliing  so  different — " 

"  IJut  your  sister,  Walter.  You  have  not  forgotten  what  we 
promised  to  each  otlier,  when  we  parted  ?  " 

"  Forgotten  !  "     But  he  said  no  more, 

"  And  if  you  had — if  suffering  and  danger  had  driven  it 
from  your  thoughts — which  it  has  not — you  would  remember  it 
now,  Walter,  when  you  find  me  poor  and  abandoned,  with  no 
home  but  this,  and  no  friends  but  the  two  who  hear  me  speak  !  " 

"  I  would  !     Heaven  knows  I  would  !  "  said  Walter. 

"Oh,  Walter,"  exclaimed  Florence,  through  her  sobs  and 
cears.  "  Dear  brother  !  Show  me  some  way  through  the  world 
— some  humble  path  that  I  may  take  alone,  and  labor  in,  and 
sometimes  think  of  you  as  one  who  will  protect  and  care  fof 
me  as  for  a  sjster  !  Oh,  help  me,  Walter,  for  I  need  help  so 
much !  " 

"  Miss  Dombey  !  Florence  !  I  would  die  to  help  you.  But 
your  friends  are  proud  and  rich.     Your  father " 

"  No,  no  !  Walter  !  "  She  shrieked,  and  put  her  hands  up 
to  her  head,  in  an  attitude  of  terror  that  transfixed  him  where 
he  stood.     "  Don't  say  that  word  !  " 

He  never,  from  that  hour,  forgot  the  voice  and  look  with 
which  she  stopped  him  at  the  name.  He  felt  that  if  he  were 
to  live  a  hundred  years,  he  never  could  forget  it. 

Somewhere  —  anywhere — but  never  home  !  All  past,  all 
gone,  all  lost,  and  broken  up  !  The  whole  history  of  her  untold 
slight  and  sufi"ering  was  in  the  cry  and  look  ;  and  he  felt  he 
never  could  forget  it,  and  he  never  did. 

She  laid  her  gentle  face  upon  the  Captain's  shoulder,  and 
related  how  and  why  she  had  fled.  If  every  sorrowing  tear  she 
shed  in  doing  so,  had  been  a  curse  upon  tlie  head  of  him  she 
never  named  or  blamed,  it  would  have  been  better  for  him, 
Walter  thought,  with  awe,  than  to  be  renounced  out  of  such  a 
strength  and  might  of  love. 

"There,  precious!"  said  the  Captain,  when  she  ceased; 
and  deep  attention  the  Captain  had  paid  to  her  while  she 
spoke  J  listening,  with  his  glazed  hat  all  awry  and  his  mouth 
wide  open.  "  Awast,  awast,  my  e)es  !  Wal'r,  dear  lad,  sheer 
off  for  to  night,  and  leave  the  pretty  one  to  me !  " 

Walter  took  her  hand  in  both  of  liis,  anil  put  it  to  his  lips, 
and  kissed  it.     He  knew  now  tiiat  she  was,  indeed,  a  homeless 


MR.   TOOTS' S  COMPLAINT.  663 

wandering  fugitive ;  but,  richer  to  him  so,  than  in  all  the  wealth 
and  pride  of  her  right  station,  she  seemed  farther  off  than  even 
on  the  height  that  had  made  him  giddy  in  his  boyish  dreams. 

Captain  Cuttle,  perplexed  by  no  such  meditations,  guarded 
Florence  to  her  room,  and  watched  at  intervals  upon  the 
charmed  ground  outside  her  door — for  such  it  truly  was  to  liim 
— until  he  felt  sufficiently  easy  in  his  mind  about  her,  to  turn 
in  under  the  counter.  On  abandoning  his  watch  for  that  pur- 
pose, he  could  not  help  calling  once,  rapturously,  through  the 
keyhole,  "  Drownded.  An't  he,  pretty?" — or,  when  he  got 
down  stairs,  making  another  trial  at  that  verse  of  Lovely  Peg, 
But  it  stuck  in  his  throat  somehow,  and  he  could  make  nothing 
of  it ;  so  he  went  to  bed,  and  dreamed  that  old  Sol  Gills  was 
married  to  Mrs.  MacStinger,  and  kept  prisoner  by  that  lady  in 
a  secret  chamber  on  a  short  allowance  of  victuals. 


CHAPTER  L. 

MR.    TOOTS'S    COMPLAINT. 


There  was  an  empty  room  above  stairs  at  the  wooden  Mid- 
shipman's, which,  in  days  of  yore,  had  been  Walter's  bed-room. 
Walter,  rousing  up  the  Captain  betimes  in  the  morning,  pro- 
posed that  they  should  carry  thither  such  furniture  out  of  the 
little  parlor  as  would  grace  it  best,  so  that  Florence  might  take 
possession  of  it  when  she  rose.  As  nothing  could  be  more 
agreeable  to  Captain  Cuttle  than  making  himself  very  red  and 
short  of  breath  in  such  a  cause,  he  turned  to  (as  he  himself 
said)  with  a  will  ;  and,  in  a  couple  of  hours,  this  garret  was 
transformed  into  a  species  of  land-cabin,  adorned  with  all  the 
choicest  movables  out  of  the  parlor,  inclusive  even  of  the 
Tartar-frigate,  which  the  Captain  hung  up  over  the  chimney- 
piece  with  such  extreme  delight,  that  he  could  do  nothing  for 
half-an-hour  afterwards  but  walk  backward  from  it,  lost  in  ad- 
miration. 

The  Captain  could  be  induced  by  no  persuasion  of  Walter's 
to  wind  up  the  big  watch,  or  to  take  back  the  canister,  or  to 
touch  the  sugar-tongs  and  teaspoons.  "  No,  no,  my  lad  ; " 
was  the  Captain's  invariable  reply  to  any  solicitation  of  the 
kind,  "  I've  made  that  there  little  property  over,  jintly."  These 
vv'ords  he  repeated  with  great  unction  and  gravity,  evidently 


664  DOM  BEY  AND  SON. 

believing  that  they  had  the  virtue  of  an  Act  of  Parliament, 
and  that  unless  he  commiLted  himself  by  some  new  admission 
of  ownership,  no  flaw  could  be  found  in  such  a  form  of  con- 
veyance. 

It  was  an  advantage  of  the  new  arrangement,  that  besides 
the  greater  seclusion  it  afforded  Florence,  it  admitted  of  the 
Midshipman  being  restored  to  his  usual  post  of  observation, 
and  also  of  the  shop  shutters  being  taken  down.  The  latter 
ceremony,  however  little  importance  the  unconscious  Captain 
attached  to  it,  was  not  wholly  superfluous  ;  for,  on  the  previous 
day,  so  much  excitement  had  been  occasioned  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, by  the  shutters  remaining  unopened,  that  the  Instrument 
Maker's  house  had  been  Ixjnored  with  an  unusual  share  of 
public  observation,  and  had  been  intently  stared  at  from  the 
opposite  side  of  the  way,  by  groups  of  hungry  gazers,  at  any 
time  between  sunrise  and  sunset.  The  idlers  and  vagabonds 
had  been  particularly  interested  in  the  Captain's  fate  ;  con- 
stantly grovelling  in  the  mud  to  apply  their  eyes  to  the  cellar- 
grating,  under  the  shop-window,  and  delighting  their  imagina- 
tions with  the  fancy  that  they  could  see  a  piece  of  his  coat  as 
he  hung  in  a  corner;  though  this  settlement  of  him  was  stoutly 
disputed  by  an  opposite  faction,  who  were  of  opinion  that  he 
lay  murdered  with  a  hammer,  on  the  stairs.  It  was  not  with- 
out exciting  some  discontent,  therefore,  that  the  subject  of 
these  rumors  was  seen  early  in  the  morning  standing  at  his 
shop-door  as  hale  and  hearty  as  if  nothing  had  happened  ;  and 
the  beadle  of  that  quarter,  a  man  of  an  ambitious  character, 
who  had  expected  to  have  the  distinction  of  being  present  at 
the  breaking  open  of  the  door,  and  of  giving  evidence  in  full 
uniform  before  the  coroner,  went  so  far  as  to  say  to  an  opposite 
neighbor,  that  the  chap  in  the  glazed  hat  had  better  not  try  it 
on  there — without  more  particularly  mentioning  what — and 
further,  that  he,  the  Beadle,  would  keep  his  eye  upon  him. 

"Captain  Cuttle,"  said  Walter,  musing,  when  they  stood 
resting  from  their  labors  at  the  shop-door,  looking  down  the 
old  familiar  street  ;  it  being  still  early  in  the  morning ;  "  noth- 
ing at  all  of  Uncle  Sol,  in  all  that  time  !  " 

"  Nothing  at  all,  my  lad,"  replied  the  Captain,  shaking  his 
head, 

"Gone  in  search  of  me,  dear,  kind  old  man,"  said  Walter: 
"  yet  never  write  to  you  !  But  why  not .-'  He  says,  in  effect 
in  this  packet  that  you  gave  me,"  taking  the  paper  from  his 
pocket,  which  had  been  opened  in  the  presence  of  the  enlight- 
ened Bunsby,  "  lh.it  if  you  never  hv\ir  from  him  before  opening 


MR.  TOOTS' S  COMPLAINT.  665 

it,  you  may  believe  him  dead.  Heaven  forbid !  But  you 
would  have  heard  of  him,  even  if  he  were  dead !  Some  one 
would  have  written,  surely,  by  his  desire,  if  he  could  not ;  and 
have  said,  'on  such  a  day,  there  died  in  my  house,'  or  'under 
my  care,'  or  so  forth,  '  Mr.  Solomon  Gills  of  London,  who  left 
this  last  remembrance  and  this  last  request  to  you.'  " 

The  Captain,  who  had  never  climbed  to  such  a  clear  height 
of  probability  before,  was  greatly  impressed  by  the  wide  pros- 
pect it  opened,  and  answered,  with  a  thoughtful  shake  of  his 
head,  "  Well  said,  my  lad  ;  wery  well  said." 

"  I  have  been  thinking  of  this,  or,  at  least,"  said  Walter, 
coloring,  "  I  have  been  thinking  of  one  thing  and  another,  all 
through  a  sleepless  night,  and  I  cannot  believe,  Captain  Cuttle, 
but  that  my  Uncle  Sol  (Lord  bless  him  !)  is  alive,  and  will 
return.  I  don't  so  much  wonder  at  his  going  away,  because, 
leaving  out  of  consideration  that  spice  of  the  marvellous  which 
was  always  in  his  character,  and  his  great  affection  for  me, 
before  which  every  other  consideration  of  his  life  became  noth- 
ing, as  no  one  ought  to  know  so  well  as  I  who  had  the  best  of 
fathers  in  him," — Walter's  voice  was  indistinct  and  husky  here, 
and  he  looked  away,  along  the  street, — "  leaving  that  out  of 
consideration,  I  say,  I  have  often  read  and  heard  of  people 
who,  having  some  near  and  dear  relative,  who  was  supposed  to 
be  shipwrecked  at  sea,  have  gone  down  to  live  on  that  part  of 
the  sea-shore  where  any  tidings  of  the  missing  ship  might  be 
expected  to  arrive,  though  only  an  hour  or  two  sooner  than 
elsewhere,  or  have  even  gone  upon  her  track  to  the  place  whither 
she  was  bound,  as  if  their  going  would  create  intelligence.  I 
think  I  should  do  such  a  thing  myself,  as  soon  as  another,  or 
sooner  than  many,  perhaps.  But  why  my  uncle  shouldn't  write 
to  you,  when  he  so  clearly  intended  to  do  so,  or  how  he  should 
die  abroad,  and  you  not  know  it  through  some  other  hand,  I 
cannot  make  out." 

Captain  Cuttle  observed,  with  a  shake  of  his  head,  that 
Jack  Bunsby  himself  hadn't  made  it  out,  and  that  he  was  a 
man  as  could  give  a  pretty  taut  opinion  too. 

"  If  my  uncle  had  been  a  heedless  young  man,  likely  to  be 
entrapped  by  jovial  company  to  some  cirinking-place,  where  he 
was  to  be  got  rid  of  for  the  sake  of  what  money  he  might  have 
about  him,"  said  Walter ;  "  or  if  he  had  been  a  reckless  sailor, 
going  ashore  with  two  or  three  months'  pay  in  his  pocket,  I 
could  understand  his  disappearing,  and  leaving  no  trace  behind. 
But,  being  what  he  was — and  is,  I  hope — I  can't  believe  it." 

"  Wal'r,  my  lad,"  inquired  the  Captain,  wistfully  eyeing  hina 


666  DOAfBEV  AJ^D  soi\r. 

as  he  pondered  and  pondered,  "  what  do  you  make  of  it, 
then  ? " 

"  Captain  Cuttle,"  returned  Walter,  "  I  don't  know  what  to 
make  of  it.  I  suppose  he  never  has  written  !  There  is  no 
doubt  about  that  ? " 

"  If  so  be  as  Sol  Gills  wrote,  my  lad,"  replied  the  Captain, 
argumentatively,  "  where's  his  dispatch  ?  " 

"  Say  that  he  intrusted  it  to  some  private  hand,"  suggested 
Walter,  "  and  that  it  has  been  forgotten,  or  carelessly  thrown 
aside,  or  lost.  Even  that  is  more  probable  to  me,  than  the 
other  event.  In  short,  I  not  only  cannot  bear  to  contemplate 
that  other  event.  Captain  Cuttle,  but  I  can't,  and  won't." 

"  Hope,  you  see,  Wal'r,"  said  the  Captain,  sagely,  "  Hope. 
It's  that  as  animates  you.  Hope  is  a  buoy,  for  which  you  over- 
haul your  Little  Warbler,  sentimental  diwision,  but  Lord,  my 
lad,  like  any  other  buoy,  it  only  floats ;  it  can't  be  steered 
nowhere.  Along  with  the  figure-head  of  Hope,"  said  the  Cap- 
tain, "  there's  a  anchor ;  but  what's  the  good  of  my  having  a 
anchor,  if  I  can't  find  no  bottom  to  let  it  go  in." 

Captain  Cuttle  said  this  rather  in  his  character  of  a  saga- 
cious citizen  and  householder,  bound  to  impart  a  morsel  from 
his  stores  of  wisdom  to  an  inexperienced  youth,  than  in  his  own 
proper  person.  Indeed,  his  face  was  quite  luminous  as  he 
spoke,  with  new  hope,  caught  from  Walter  ;  and  he  appropri- 
ately concluded  by  slapping  him  on  the  back  ;  and  saying,  with 
enthusiasm,  "  Hooroar,  my  lad  !  Indiwidually,  I'm  o'  your 
opinion." 

Walter,  with  this  cheerful  laugh,  returned  the  salutation, 
and  said  : 

"  Only  one  word  more  about  my  uncle  at  present,  Captain 
Cuttle.  I  suppose  it  is  impossible  that  he  can  have  written  in 
the  ordinary  course — by  mail  packet,  or  ship  letter,  you  under- 
stand— " 

"  Ay,  ay,  my  lad,"  said  the  Captain  approvingly. 

"  — And  that  you  ha\e  missed  the  letter  any  how  1  " 

"  Why,  Wal'r,"  said  the  Captain,  turning  his  eyes  upon  him 
with  a  faint  approach  to  a  severe  expression,  "  an't  I  been  on 
the  look  out  for  any  tidings  of  that  man  o'  science,  old  Sol 
dills,  your  uncle,  day  and  night,  ever  since  I  lost  him  ?  An't 
my  heart  been  heavy  and  watchful  always,  along  of  him  and 
you  ?  Sleeping  and  waking,  an't  I  been  upon  my  post,  and 
wouldn't  I  scorn  to  quit  it  while  this  here  Midshipman  held  to- 
gether !  " 

"  Ves,  Captain   Cuttle,"  replied  Walter,  grasping  his  hand, 


MH.  TdOrS'^  COMPLAWT.  667 

"  I  know  you  would,  and  I  know  how  faithful  and  earnest  all 
you  say  and  feel  is,  I  am  sure  of  it.  You  don't  doubt  that  I 
am  as  sure  of  it  as  I  am  that  my  foot  is  again  upon  this  door- 
step, or  that  I  again  have  hold  of  this  true  hand.     Do  you  ? " 

"  No,  no,  Wal'r,"  returned  the  Captain,  with  his  beaming 
face. 

"  I'll  hazard  no  more  conjectures,"  said  Walter,  fervently 
shaking  the  hard  hand  of  the  Captain,  who  shook  his  with  no 
less  good-will.  "  All  I  will  add  is.  Heaven  forbid  that  I  should 
touch  my  uncle's  possessions.  Captain  Cuttle  !  Everything  that 
he  left  here,  shall  remain  in  the  care  of  the  truest  of  stewards 
and  kindest  of  men — and  if  his  name  is  not  Cuttle,  he  has  no 
name  !     Now,  best  of  friends,  about — Miss  Dombey." 

There  was  a  change  in  Walter's  manner,  as  he  came  to 
these  two  words  ;  and  when  he  uttered  them,  all  his  confidence 
and  cheerfulness  appeared  to  have  deserted  him. 

"  I  thought,  before  Miss  Dombey  stopped  me  when  I  spoke 
of  her  father  last  night,"  said  Walter,  "—you  remember 
how  ?  " 

The  Captain  well  remembered,  and  shook  his  head. 

"  I  thought,"  said  Walter,  "  before  that,  that  we  had  but 
one  hard  duty  to  perform,  and  that  it  was,  to  prevail  upon  her 
to  communicate  w\th  her  friends,  and  to  return  home." 

The  Captain  muttered  a  feeble  "  Awast !  "  or  a  "  Stand 
by !  "  or  something  or  other,  equally  pertinent  to  the  occasion  ; 
but  it  was  rendered  so  extremely  feeble  by  the  total  discomfit- 
ure with  which  he  received  this  announcement,  that  what  it 
was,  is  mere  matter  of  conjecture. 

"  But,"  said  Walter,  "  that  is  over.  I  think  so  no  longer. 
I  would  sooner  be  put  back  again  upon  that  piece  of  wreck,  on 
which  I  have  so  often  floated,  since  my  preservation,  in  my 
dreams,  and  there  left  to  drift,  and  drive,  and  die !  " 

"  Hooroar,  my  lad  !  "  exclaimed  the  Captain,  in  a  burst  of 
uncontrollable  satisfaction.      "  Hooroar  !  hooroar  !  hooroar  !  " 

"  To  think  that  she,  so  young,  so  good,  and  beautiful,"  said 
Walter,  "  so  delicately  brought  up,  and  born  to  such  a  different 
tortune,  should  strive  with  the  rough  world  !  But  we  have  seen 
the  gulf  that  cuts  off  all  behind  her,  though  no  one  but  herself 
can  know  how  deep  it  is  ;  and  there  is  no  return." 

Captain  Cuttle,  without  quite  understanding  this,  greatly 
approved  of  it,  and  observed,  in  a  tone  of  strong  corroboration, 
that  the  wind  was  quite  abaft. 

"  She  ought  not  to  be  alone  here  ;  ought  she.  Captain  Cut- 
tle ?  "  said  Walter,  anxiously. 


668  DOMDEY  AXD  SOX. 

"  Well,  my  lad,"  replied  the  Captain,  after  a  little  sagacious 
consideration.  "  1  don't  know.  Vou  being  here  to  keep  her 
company,  you  see,  and  you  two  being  jintly " 

"  Dear  Captain  Cuttle  !  "  remonstrated  Walter,  "  I  being 
here  !  Miss  Dombey,  in  her  guileless  innocent  heart,  regards 
me  as  her  adopted  brother  ;  but  what  would  the  guile  and 
guilt  of  my  heart  be,  if  I  pretended  to  believe  that  I  had  any 
right  to  approach  her,  familiarly,  in  that  character — if  I  pre- 
tended to  forget  that  1  am  bound,  in  honor,  not  to  do  it ! " 

"Wal'r,  my  lad,"  hinted  the  Captain,  with  some  revival  oi 
his  discomfiture,  "  an't  there  no  other  character  as " 

"  Oh  !  "  returned  Walter,  "  would  you  have  me  die  in  her 
esteem — in  such  esteem  as  hers — and  put  a  veil  between  myself 
and  her  angel's  face  forever,  by  taking  advantage  of  her  being 
here  for  refuge,  so  trusting  and  so  unprotected,  to  endeavor  to 
exalt  myself  into  her  lover  !  What  do  I  say  ?  There  is  no  one 
in  the  world  who  would  be  more  opposed  to  me  if  I  could  do 
so,  than  you." 

*'  Wal'r,  my  lad,"  said  the  Captain,  drooping  more  and 
more,  "  prowiding  as  there  is  any  just  cause  or  impediment 
why  two  persons  should  not  be  jined  together  in  the  house  of 
bondage,  for  which  you'll  overhaul  the  place  and  make  a  note ; 
I  hope  I  should  declare  it  as  promised  and  wowed  in  the 
banns.     So  there  an't  no  other  character  ;  an't  there  my  lad  !  " 

Walter  briskly  waved  his  hand  in  the  negative. 

"  Well,  my  lad,"  growled  the  Captain  slowly,  "  I  won't  deny 
but  what  I  find  myself  very  much  down  by  the  head,  along  o' 
this  here,  or  but  what  I've  gone  clean  about.  But  as  to  Lady^ 
lass,  Wal'r,  mind  you,  wot's  respect  and  duty  to  her  is  respect 
and  duty  in  my  articles,  howsumvver  disapinting  ;  and  therefore 
I  follows  in  your  wake,  my  lad,  and  feel  as  you  are,  no  doubt, 
acting  up  to  yourself.  And  there  an't  no  other  character,  an't 
there?  "  said  the  Captain,  musing  over  the  ruins  of  his  fallen 
castle  with  a  very  despondent  face. 

"  Now,  Captain  Cuttle,"  said  Walter,  starting  a  fresh  point 
with  a  gayer  air,  to  cheer  the  Captain  up — but  nothing  could 
do  that ;  he  was  to  much  concerned — "  I  think  we  should  exert 
ourselves  to  find  .some  one  who  would  be  a  proper  attendant 
for  Miss  Dombey  while  she  remains  here,  and  who  may  be 
trusted.  None  of  her  relations  may.  It's  clear  Miss  l)t)nibey 
feels  that  they  are  all  subservient  to  her  father.  What  has  be- 
come of  Susan  ?  " 

"  The  young  woman  ?  "  returned  the  Captain.  "It's  mv 
belief  as  she  was  sent  away  again  the  will  oi  Heart's  Delight. 


MR.   TOOTS'S  COMPLAINT.  66g 

I  made  a  signal  for  her  when  Lady-lass  first  come,  and  she  rated  • 
of  her  wery  high,  and  said  she  had  been  gone  a  long  time." 

"Then,"  said  Walter,  "do  you  ask  Miss  Dombey  where 
she's  gone,  and  we'll  try  to  find  her.  The  morning's  getting 
on,  and  Miss  Dombey  will  soon  be  rising.  You  are  her  best 
friend.  Wait  for  her  up  stairs,  and  leave  me  to  take  care  of 
all  down  here." 

The  Captain,  very  crest-fallen  indeed,  eclioed  the  sigh  with 
which  Walter  said  this,  and  complied.  Florence  was  delighted 
with  her  new  room,  anxious  to  see  Walter,  and  overjoyed  at 
the  prospect  of  greeting  her  old  friend  Susan.  But  Florence 
could  not  say  where  Susan  was  gone,  except  that  it  was  in  Es- 
sex, and  no  one  could  say,  she  remembered,  unless  it  were  Mr. 
Toots. 

With  this  information  the  melancholy  Captain  returned  to 
Walter,  and  gave  him  to  understand  that  Mr.  Toots  was  the 
young  gentleman  whom  he  had  encountered  on  the  door-step, 
and  that  he  was  a  friend  of  his,  and  that  he  was  a  young  gen- 
tleman of  property,  and  that  he  hopelessly  adored  Miss  Dom- 
bey. The  Captain  also  related  how  the  intelligence  of  Walter's 
supposed  fate  had  first  made  him  acquainted  with  Mr.  Toots, 
and  how  there  was  a  solemn  treaty  and  compact  between  them, 
that  Mr.  Toots  should  be  mute  upon  the  subject  of  his  love. 

The  question  then  was,  whether  Florence  could  trust  Mr. 
Toots ;  and  Florence  saying,  with  a  smile,  "  Oh,  yes,  with  her 
whole  heart !  "  it  became  important  to  find  out  where  Mr.  Toots 
lived.  This  Florence  didn't  know,  and  the  Captain  had  for- 
gotten ;  and  the  Captain  was  telling  Walter,  in  the  little  parlor, 
that  Mr.  Toots  was  sure  to  be  there  soon,  when  in  came  Mr. 
Toots  himself. 

"  Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  rushing  into  the  parlor 
without  any  ceremony,  "  Fm  in  a  state  of  mind  bordering  on 
distraction  ! " 

Mr.  Toots  had  discharged  those  words,  as  from  a  mortar, 
before  he  observed  Walter,  whom  he  recognized  with  what  may 
be  described  as  a  chuckle  of  misery. 

"  You'll  excuse  me.  Sir,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  holding  his  fore- 
head, "but  Fm  at  present  in  that  state  that  my  brain  is  going, 
if  not  gone,  and  anything  approaching  to  politeness  in  an 
individual  so  situated  would  be  a  hollow  mockery.  Captain 
Gills,  I  beg  to  request  the  favor  of  a  private  interview." 

"  Why,  Brother,"  returned  the  Captain,  taking  him  by  the 
hand,  "  you  are  the  man  as  we  was  on  the  look-out  for." 

"  Oh,  Captain  GJlls/"  said  Mn  Toots,  "  wh^t  a  Ipok-put  that 


670  DOME F.Y  AND  SOX. 

must  be,  of  which  /  am  the  object  !  1  haven't  dared  to  shave. 
I'm  hi  th  U  rash  state.  1  haven't  liad  my  clothes  Ivrushed.  My 
hair  is  matted  together.  I  told  the  Chicken  that  if  he  offered 
to  clean  my  boots,  I'd  stretch  him  a  corpse  before  me  !  " 

All  these  indications  of  a  disordered  mind  were  verified  in 
Mr.  Toots's  appearance,  which  was  wild  and  savage. 

"  See  here,  Brother,"  said  the  Captain.  "  This  here's  old 
Sol  Gills's  nevy  VVal'r.  Him  as  was  supposed  to  have  perished 
at  sea." 

Mr.  Toots  took  his  hand  from  his  forehead,  and  stared  at 
Walter. 

"  (iood  gracious  me  !  "  stammered  Mr.  Toots.  "  What  a 
complication  of  misery  !  How-de-do?  I — I — I'm  afraid  you 
must  have  got  very  wet.  Captain  Gills,  will  you  allow  me  a 
word  in  the  shop  ?  " 

He  took  the  Captain  by  the  coat,  and  going  out  with  him 
whispered  : 

"  That  then.  Captain  Gills,  is  the  party  you  spoke  of,  when 
you  said  that  he  and  Miss  Dombey  were  made  for  one  another  ?  " 

"  Why,  ay,  my  lad,"  replied  the  disconsolate  Captain  ;  "  I 
was  of  that  mind  once." 

"  And  at  this  time  !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Toots,  with  his  hand  to 
his  forehead  again.  "  Of  all  others  ! — a  hated  rival !  At  least, 
he  an't  a  hated  rival,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  stopping  short,  on 
second  thoughts,  and  taking  away  his  hand  ;  "  what  should  I 
hate  him  for  ?  No.  If  my  affection  has  been  truly  dis- 
interested, Captain  Gills,  let  me  prove  it  now  !  " 

Mr.  ^Foots  shot  back  abruptly  into  the  parlor,  and  said, 
wringing  Walter  by  the  hand  : 

"  How-de-do  ?  I  hope  you  didn't  take  any  cold.  I — I  shall 
be  very  glad  if  you'll  give  me  the  pleasure  of  your  acquaintance. 
I  wish  you  many  happy  returns  of  the  day.  Upon  my  word  and 
honor,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  warming  as  he  became  better  ac- 
quainted with  Walter's  face  and  figure,  "I'm  very  glad  to  see 
you  1  " 

"  Thank  you,  heartily,"  said  Walter.  "  I  couldn't  desire  a 
more  genuine  and  genial  welcome." 

"  Couldn't  you,  though  ?  "  said  Mr.  Toots,  still  shaking  his 
hand.  '*  It's  very  kind  of  you.  I'm  much  obliged  to  you. 
How-de-do .-'  I  hope  you  left  everybody  quite  well  over  the — • 
that  is  upon  the — 1  mean  wherever  you  came  from  last,  you 
know." 

All  these  good  wishes,  and  better  intentions,  Walter  re- 
sponded to  manfully. 


MR.  TOOrS'S  COM  FLA  INT.  671 

"  Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  I  should  wish  lo  be 
Strictly  honorable  ;  but  I  trust  I  may  be  allov.'ed  now,  to  allude 
bo  a  certain  subject  that " 

"  Ay,  ay,  my  lad,"  returned  the  Captain.     "  P'reely,  freelj 

"  Then,  Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr,  Toots,  "  and  Lieutenant 
Walters,  are  you  aware  that  the  most  dreadful  circumstances 
have  been  happening  at  Mr.  Dombey's  house,  and  that  Miss 
Dombey  herself  has  left  her  father,  who,  in  my  opinion,"  said 
Mr.  Toots,  with  great  excitement,  "  is  a  Brute,  that  it  would  be 
a  flattery  to  call  a — a  marble  monument,  or  a  bird  of  prey,— 
and  that  she  is  not  to  be  found,  and  has  gone  no  one  knows 
where  ?  " 

"  May  I  ask  how  you  heard  this  ?  "  inquired  Walter. 

"  Lieutenant  Walters,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  who  had  arrived  at 
that  appellation  by  a  process  peculiar  to  himself  ;  probably  by 
jumbling  up  his  Christian  name  with  the  seafaring  profession, 
and  supposing  some  relationship  between  him  and  the  Captain, 
which  would  extend,  as  a  matter  of  course,  to  their  titles; 
"  Lieutenant  Walters,  I  can  have  no  objection  to  make  a 
straightforward  reply.  The  fact  is,  that  feoJing  extremely  in- 
terested in  everything  that  relates  to  Miss  Dombey — not  for 
any  selfish  reason,  Lieutenant  Walters,  for  I  am  well  aware  that 
the  most  agreeable  thing  I  could  do  for  all  parties  would  be  to 
put  an  end  to  my  existence,  which  can  only  be  regarded  as  an 
inconvenience — I  have  been  in  the  habit  of  bestowing  a  trifle 
now  and  then  upon  a  footman  ;  a  most  respectable  young  man, 
of  the  name  of  Towlinson,  who  has  lived  in  the  family  some 
time  ;  and  Towlinson  informed  me,  yesterday  evening,  that  this 
was  the  state  of  things.  Since  which,  Captain  Gills — and 
Lieutenant  Walters — I  have  been  perfectly  frantic,  and  have 
been  lying  down  on  the  sofa  all  night,  the  Ruin  you  behold." 

"  Mr.  Toots,"  said  Walter,  "  I  am  happy  to  be  able  to 
relieve  your  mind,  fray  calm  yourself.  Miss  Dombey  is  safe 
nnd  well." 

"  Sir  !  "  cried  Mr.  Toots,  starting  from  his  chair  and  shaking 
iiands  with  him  anew,  "  the  relief  is  so  excessive,  and  un- 
speakable, that  if  you  were  to  tell  me  now  that  Miss  Dombey 
was  married  even,  1  could  smile.  Yes,  Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr. 
Toots  appealing  to  him,  "  upon  my  soul  and  body,  I  really 
think,  whatever  I  might  do  to  myself  immediately  afterwards, 
that  I  could  smile,  I  am  so  relieved." 

"  It  will  be  a  greater  relief  and  delight  still,  to  such  a 
generous  mind  as  yours,"  said  Walter,  not  at  all  slow  in  return- 
ing his  greeting,  "  to  ftnd  that  you  can  render  .service  to  Miss 


672  nOMBEY  AXD  SOX. 

Dombey.     Caplain   Cuttle,  will  you  have  the  kindness  to  take 
Mr.  Toots  up-stairs  ?  " 

The  Captain  beckoned  to  Mr.  Toots,  who  followed  him  with 
a  bewildered  countenance,  and  ascending  to  the  top  of  the 
house,  was  introduced,  without  a  word  of  preparation  from  his 
conductor,  into  P'lorcncc's  now  retreat. 

Poor  Mr.  Toots's  amazement  and  pleasure  at  sight  of  her 
■were  such,  that  they  could  find  a  vent  in  nothing  but  extravagance. 
He  ran  up  to  her,  seized  her  hand,  kissed  it,  dropped  it,  seized 
it  again,  fell  upon  one  knee,  shed  tears,  chuckled,  and  was  quite 
regardless  of  his  danger  of  being  pinned  by  Diogenes,  who, 
inspired  by  the  belief  that  there  was  something  hostile  to  his 
mistress  in  these  demonstrations,  worked  round  and  round  him, 
as  if  only  undecided  at  what  particular  point  to  go  in  for  the 
assault,  but  quite  resolved  to  do  him  a  fearful  mischief. 

"  Oh  Di,  you  bad,  forgetful  dog  !  Dear  Mr.  Toots,  I  am  so 
rejoiced  to  see  you  !  " 

"  Thankee,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  I  am  pretty  well,  I'm  much 
obliged  to  you,  Miss  Dombey.  I  hope  all  the  family  are  the 
same." 

Mr.  Toots  said  this  without  the  least  notion  of  what  he  was 
talking  about,  and  sat  down  on  a  chair,  staring  at  Florence 
with  the  liveliest  contention  of  delight  and  despair  going  on  in 
his  face  that  any  face  could  exhibit. 

"  Captain  Gills  and  Lieutenant  Walters  have  mentioned, 
Miss  Dombey,"  gasped  Mr.  Toots,  "  that  I  can  do  you  some 
service.  If  1  could  by  any  means  wash  out  the  remembrance 
of  that  day  at  Brighton,  when  I  conducted  myself — much  more 
like  a  Parricide  than  a  person -of  independent  property,"  said 
Mr.  Toots,  with  severe  self-accusation,  "  I  should  sink  into  the 
silent  tomb  with  a  gleam  of  joy." 

"  Pray  Mr.  Toots,"  said  Florence,  "  do  not  wish  me  to 
forget  anything  in  our  acquaintance.  I  never  can,  believe  me. 
You  have  been  far  too  kind  and  good  to  me  always." 

"  Miss  Dombey,"  returned  Mr.  Toots,  "  your  consideration 
for  my  feelings  is  a  part  of  your  angelic  character.  Thank  you 
a  thousand  times.     It's  of  no  consequence  at  all." 

"  NN'hat  we  thought  of  asking  you,"  said  Florence,  "  is, 
whether  you  remember  where  Susan,  whom  you  were  so  kind 
as  to  accompany  to  the  coach  office  when  she  left  me,  is  to  be 
found." 

"  Why  I  do  not  certainly,  Miss  Dombey,"  said  Mr.  Toots, 
after  a  little  consideration,  "  remember  the  exact  name  of  the 
place  that  was  on  the  coach :  and  1  do  recpllect  that  she  said 


MR.   TOOTS'S  COMPLAINT.  673 

she  was  hot  going  to  stop  there,  but  was  going  farther  on. 
But  Miss  Dombey,  if  your  object  is  to  find  her,  and  to  have  her 
here,  myself  and  the  Chicken  will  produce  her  with  every 
dispatch  that  devotion  on  my  part,  and  great  intelligence  on 
the  Chicken's,  can  insure." 

Mr.  Toots  was  so  manifestly  delighted  and  revived  by  the 
prospect  of  being  useful,  and  the  disinterested  sincerity  of  his 
devotion  was  so  unquestionable,  that  it  would  have  been  cruel 
to  refuse  him.  Florence,  with  an  instinctive  delicacy,  forbore 
to  urge  the  least  obstacle,  though  she  did  not  forbear  to  over- 
power him  with  thanks  ;  and  Mr.  Toots  proudly  took  the  com« 
mission  upon  himself  for  immediate  execution. 

"  Miss  Dombey,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  touching  her  proffered 
hand,  with  a  pang  of  hopeless  love  visibly  shooting  through  him, 
and  flashing  out  in  his  face,  "  Good-by  !  Allow  me  to  take  the 
liberty  of  saying,  that  your  misfortunes  make  me  perfectly 
wretched,  and  that  you  may  trust  me,  next  to  Captain  Gills 
himself.  I  am  quite  aware.  Miss  Dombey,  of  my  own  defi- 
ciencies— they're  not  of  the  least  consequence,  thank  you — but 
I  am  entirely  to  be  relied  upon,  I  do  assure  you.  Miss  Dom- 
bey." 

With  that  Mr,  Toots  came  out  of  the  room,  again  accom- 
panied by  the  Captain,  who,  standing  at  a  little  distance,  hold- 
ing his  hat  under  his  arm  and  arranging  his  scattered  locks 
with  his  hook,  had  been  a  not  uninterested  witness  of  what 
passed.  And  when  the  door  closed  behind  them,  the  light  of 
Mr.  Toots's  life  was  darkly  clouded  again. 

"  Captain  Gills,"  said  that  gentleman,  stopping  near  the 
bottom  of  the  stairs,  and  turning  round,  "  to  tell  you  the  truth, 
I  am  not  in  a  frame  of  mind  at  the  present  moment,  in  which  I 
could  see  Lieutenant  Walters  with  that  entirely  friendly  feeling 
towards  him  that  I  should  wish  to  harbor  in  my  breast.  We 
cannot  always  command  our  feelings.  Captain  Gills,  and  I  should 
take  it  as  a  particular  favor  if  you'd  let  me  out  at  the  private 
door," 

"Brother,"  returned  the  Captain,  "you  shall  shape  your  own 
course.  Wotever  course  you  take,  is  plain  and  seamanlike, 
I'm  wery  sure." 

"Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "you're  extremely  kind. 
Vour  good  opinion  is  a  consolation  to  me.  There  is  one  thing," 
said  Mr.  Toots,  standing  in  the  passage,  behind  the  half- 
opened  door,  "  that  I  hope  you'll  bear  in  mind.  Captain  Gills, 
and  that  I  should  wish  Lieutenant  Walters  to  be  made  ac- 
quainted with.     I  have  quite  come  into  my  property  now,  yon 


6)4  DOMBEY  AKD  <;0//. 

know,  and — and  I  don't  know  what  to  do  with  it.  If  I  could 
be  at  all  useful  in  a  pecuniary  point  of  view,  I  should  glide  into 
the  silent  tomb  with  ease  and  smoothness." 

Mr.  Toots  said  no  more,  but  slipped  out  quietly  and  shut 
the  door  upon  himself,  to  cut  the  Captain  oft"  from  any  reply. 

Florence  thought  of  this  good  creature,  long  after  he  had 
left  her,  with  mingled  emotions  of  joain  and  pleasure.  He  wai; 
so  honest  and  warm-hearted,  that  to  see  him  again  and  be 
assured  of  his  truth  to  her  in  her  distress,  was  a  joy  and 
comfort  beyond  all  price  ;  but  for  that  very  reason,  it  was  sc 
affecting  to  think  that  she  caused  him  a  moment's  unhappiness, 
or  ruffled,  by  a  breath,  the  harmless  current  of  his  life,  that  her 
eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  her  bosom  overflowed  with  pity. 
Captain  Cuttle,  in  his  different  way,  thought  much  of  Mr.  Toots 
too  ;  and  so  did  Walter  ;  and  when  the  evening  came,  and  they 
were  all  sitting  together  in  Florence's  new  room,  Walter 
praised  him  in  a  most  impassioned  manner,  and  told  Florence 
what  he  had  said  on  leaving  the  house,  with  ever}'  graceful  set- 
ting-ofl  in  the  way  of  comment  and  appreciation  that  his  own 
honesty  and  sympathy  could  surround  it  with. 

Mr.  Toots  did  not  return  upon  the  next  day,  or  the  next,  or 
for  several  days  ;  and  in  the  meanwhile  Florence,  without  any 
new  alarm,  lived  like  a  quiet  bird  in  a  cage,  at  the  top  of  the  old 
Instrument-maker's  house.  But  Florence  drooped  and  hung  her 
head  more  and  more  plainly,  as  the  days  went  on  ;  and  the  expres- 
sion that  had  been  seen  in  the  face  of  the  dead  child,  was  often 
turned  to  the  sky  from  her  high  window,  as  if  it  sought  his 
angel  out,  on  the  bright  shore  of  which  he  had  spoken  :  lying 
on  his  little  bed. 

Florence  had  been  weak  and  delicate  of  late,  and  the 
agitation  she  had  undergone  was  not  without  its  influence  on 
her  health.  But  it  was  no  bodily  illness  that  affected  her  now. 
She  was  distressed  in  mind  ;  and  the  cause  of  her  distress  was 
Walter. 

Interested  in  her,  anxious  for  her,  proud  and  glad  to  serve 
her,  and  showing  all  this  with  the  enthusiasm  and  ardor  of  his 
character,  Florence  saw  that  he  avoided  her.  All  the  long 
day  through,  he  seldom  approached  her  room.  If  she  asked 
for  him,  he  came,  again  for  the  moment  as  earnest  and  as 
bright  as  she  remembered  him  when  she  was  a  lost  child  in  the 
staring  streets  ;  but  he  soon  became  constrained — her  quick 
affection  was  too  watchful  not  to  know  it — and  uneasy,  and 
soon  left  her.  Unsought,  he  never  came,  all  day.  between  the 
morning  and  the  night.     When  the  evening  closed  in,  he   was 


MR.  TCOTS'S  COMPLAINT.  675 

always  there,  and  that  was  her  happiest  time,  for  then  she  half 
believed  that  the  old  Walter  of  her  childhood  was  not  changed. 
But,  even  then,  some  trivial  word,  look  or  circumstances  would 
show  her  that  there  was  an  indefinable  division  between  them 
which  could  not  be  passed. 

And  she  could  not  but  see  that  these  revealings  of  a  great 
alteration  in  Walter  manifested  themselves  in  despite  of  his 
utmost  efforts  to  hide  them.  In  his  consideration  for  her,  she 
thought,  and  in  the  earnesness  of  his  desire  to  spare  her  any 
wound  from  liis  kind  hand  he  resorted  to  innumerable  little 
artifices  and  disguises.  So  much  the  more  did  Florence  feel 
the  greatness  of  the  alteration  in  him  ;  so  much  the  oftener  did 
she  weep  at  this  estrangement  of  her  brother. 

The  good  Captain — her  untiring,  tender,  ever  zealous  friend 
— saw  it,  too,  Florence  thought,  and  it  pained  him.  He  was 
less  cheerful  and  hopeful  than  he  had  been  at  first,  and  would 
steal  looks  at  her  and  Walter,  by  turns,  when  they  were  all 
three  together  of  an  evening,  with  quite  a  sad  face. 

Florence  resolved,  at  last,  to  speak  to  Walter.  She  believed 
she  knew  now  what  the  cause  of  his  estrangement  was,  and  she 
thought  it  would  be  a  relief  to  her  full  heart,  and  would  set  him 
more  at  ease,  if  she  told  him  she  had  found  it  out,  and  quite 
submitted  to  it,  and  did  not  reproach  him. 

It  was  on  a  certain  Sunday  afternoon,  that  Florence  took 
this  resolution.  The  faithful  Captain,  in  an  amazing  shirt-col- 
lar, was  sitting  by  her,  reading  with  his  spectacles  on,  and  she 
asked  him  where  Walter  was. 

"  I  think  he's  down  below,  my  lady  lass,"  returned  the  Cap- 
tain. 

"  I  should  like  to  speak  to  him,"  said  Florence,  rising  hur- 
riedly as  if  to  go  down-stairs. 

"I'll  rouse  him  up  here,  Beauty,"  said  the  Captain,  "in  a 
trice." 

Thereupon  the  Captain,  with  much  alacrity,  shouldered  his 
book — for  he  made  it  a  point  of  duty  to  read  none  but  very 
large  books  on  a  Sunday,  as  having  a  more  staid  appearance  : 
and  had  bargained,  years  ago,  for  a  prodigious  volume  at  a 
book-stall,  five  lines  of  which  utterly  confounded  him  at  any 
time,  insomuch  that  he  had  not  yet  ascertained  of  what  subject 
it  treated — and  withdrew.     Walter  soon  appeared. 

"  Captain  Cuttle  tells  me.  Miss  Dombey,"  he  eagerly  began 
on  coming  in — but  stopped  when  he  saw  her  face. 

"  You  are  not  so  well  to-day.  You  look  distressed.  You 
have  been  weeping." 


5yg  DOhtBE  y  AXD  SOJ^. 

He  spoke  so  kindly,  and  with  such  a  fen-ent  tremor  in  his 
voice,  that  the  tears  gushed  into  her  eyes  at  the  sound  of  kij 
words. 

"Walter,"  said  Florence,  gently,  "I  am  not  quite  well,  and 
1  have  been  weeping.     I  wai>t  to  speak  to  you." 

He  sat  down  opposite  to  her,  looking  at  her  beautiful  and 
Innocent  face  ;  and  his  own  turned  pale,  and  his  lips  trembled. 

"  You  said,  upon  the  night  when  I  knew  that  you  were 
saved — and  oh  !  dear  Walter  what  I  felt  that  night,  and  what  I 
hoped  !  " — 

He  put  his  trembling  hand  upon  the  table  between  them, 
and  sat  looking  at  her. 

— "  that  I  was  changed.  I  was  surprised  to  hear  you  say 
so,  but  I  understand,  now,  that  I  am.  Don't  be  angry  with  me 
Walter.     I  was  too  much  overjoyed  to  think  of  it,  then." 

She  seemed  a  child  to  him  again.  It  was  the  ingenuous, 
confiding,  loving  child  he  saw  and  heard.  Not  the  dear 
woman,  at  whose  feet  he  would  have  laid  the  riches  of  the 
earth. 

"  You  remember  the  last  time  I  saw  you,  Walter,  before  you 
went  away  ? " 

He  put  his  hand  into  his  breast,  and  took  out  a  little 
purse, 

"  I  have  always  worn  it  round  my  neck  !  If  I  had  gone 
down  in  the  deep,  it  would  have  been  with  me  at  the  bottom  of 
the  sea." 

"  And  you  will  wear  it  still,  Walter,  for  my  old  sake  ?  " 

"Until  I  die!" 

She  laid  her  hand  on  his,  as  fearlessly  and  simply,  as  if  not 
a  day  had  intervened  since  she  gave  him  the  little  token  of  re- 
membrance. 

"  I  am  glad  of  that.  I  shall  be  always  glad  to  think  so, 
Walter.  Do  you  recollect  that  a  thought  of  this  change  seemed 
to  come  into  our  minds  at  the  same  time  that  evening,  when  we 
were  talking  together  ?  " 

"  No  !  "  he  answered,  in  a  wondering  tone. 

"  Yes,  Walter.  I  had  been  the  means  of  injuring  your  hopes 
and  prospects  even  then.  I  feared  to  think  so,  then,  but  1 
know  it  now.  If  you  were  able,  then,  in  your  generosity,  to 
hide  from  me  that  you  knew  it  too,  you  cannot  do  so  now,  al- 
though you  try  as  generously  as  before.  You  do.  I  thank  you 
for  it,  Walter,  deeply,  truly  ;  but  you  cannot  succeed.  You 
have  suffered  too  mucli  in  your  own  hardships,  and  in  those  of 
your  dearest  relation,  quite  to  overlook  the  innocent  cause  of 


MR.   TOOTS- S  COMPLAINT.  677 

all  the  peril  and  affliction  that  has  befallen  you.  You  cannot 
quite  forget  me  in  that  character,  and  we  can  be  brother  and 
sister  no  longer.  But,  dear  Walter,  do  not  think  that  I  com- 
plain of  you  in  this.  I  might  have  known  it — ought  to  nave 
known  it — but  forgot  it  in  my  joy.  All  I  hope  is  that  you  may 
think  of  me  less  irksomely  when  this  feeling  is  no  more  a  secret 
one ;  and  all  I  ask  is,  Walter,  in  the  name  of  the  poor  child 
who  was  your  sister  once,  that  you  will  not  struggle  with  your- 
self, and  pain  yourself,  for  my  sake,  now  that  I  know  all !  " 

Walter  had  looked  upon  her  while  she  said  this,  with  a  faco 
so  full  of  wonder  and  amazement,  that  it  had  room  for  nothing 
else.  Now  he  caught  up  the  hand  that  touched  his,  so  entreat- 
ingly,  and  held  it  between  his  own. 

"  Oh,  Miss  Dombey,"  he  said,  "  is  it  possible  that  while  I 
have  been  suffering  so  much,  in  striving  with  my  sense  of  what 
is  due  to  you,  and  must  be  rendered  to  you,  I  have  made  you 
suffer  what  your  words  disclose  to  me.  Never,  never,  before 
Heaven,  have  I  thought  of  you  but  as  the  single,  bright,  pure, 
blessed  recollection  of  my  boyhood  and  my  youth.  Never  have 
I  from  the  first,  and  never  shall  I  to  the  last,  regard  your  part  in 
my  life,  but  as  something  sacred,  never  t  be  lightly  thought  of, 
never  to  be  esteemed  enough,  never,  until  death,  to  be  forgotten. 
Again  to  see  you  look,  and  hear  you  speak,  as  you  did  on  that 
night  when  we  parted,  is  happiness  to  me  that  there  are  no 
words  to  utter ;  and  to  be  loved  and  trusted  as  your  brother,  is 
the  next  great  gift  I  could  receive  and  prize  !  " 

"  Walter,"  said  Florence,  looking  at  him  earnestly,  but  with 
a  changing  face,  "  what  is  that  which  is  due  to  me,  and  must 
be  rendered  to  me,  at  the  sacrifice  of  all  this  ?  " 

"  Respect,"  said  Walter,  in  a  low  tone.     "  Reverence." 

The  color  dawned  in  her  face,  and  she  timidly  and  thought- 
fully withdrew  her  hand  ;  still  looking  at  him  with  unabated 
earnestness. 

"  I  have  not  a  brother's  right,"  said  Walter.  "  I  have  not 
a  brother's  claim.     I  left  a  child.     I  find  a  woman." 

The  color  overspread  her  face.  She  made  a  gesture  as  if  of 
entreaty  that  he  would  say  no  more,  and  her  face  dropped  upon 
her  hands. 

They  were  both  silent  for  a  time  ;  she  weeping. 

"  I  owe  it  to  a  heart  so  trusting,  pure  and  good,"  said 
Walter,  "  even  to  tear  myself  from  it,  though  I  rend  my  own. 
How  dare  1  say  it  is  my  sister's  !  " 

She  was  weeping  still. 

"  If  you  had  been  happy ;  surrounded  as  you  should  be  by 


678  DOMBEY  AND  SOAT. 

loving  and  admiring  friends,  and  by  all  that  makes  the  statiou 
you  were  born  to  enviable,"  said  Walter  ;  "and  if  you  had 
called  me  brother,  then,  in  your  affectionate  remembrance  of 
the  past,  I  could  have  answered  to  the  name  from  my  distant 
place,  with  no  inward  assurance  that  I  wronged  your  spotless 
truth  by  doing  so.     But  here — and  now  !  " — 

"  Oh  thank  you,  thank  you,  Walter !  Forgive  my  having 
wronged  you  so  much,  I  had  no  one  to  advise  me.  I  am 
quite  alone." 

"  Florence  !  "  said  Walter,  passionately.  "  I  am  hurried 
on  to  say,  what  I  thought,  but  a  few  moments  ago,  nothing 
could  have  forced  from  my  lips.  If  I  h  .d  been  prosper- 
ous ;  if  I  had  any  means  or  hope  of  being  one  day  able  to  re- 
stoie  you  to  a  station  near  your  own  ;  I  would  have  told  you 
that  there  was  one  name  you  might  bestow  upon  me — a  right 
above  all  others,  to  protect  and  cherish  you — that  I  was  worthy 
of  in  nothing  but  the  love  and  honor  that  I  bore  you,  and  in  my 
whole  heart  being  yours.  I  would  have  told  you  that  it  was  the 
only  claim  that  you  could  give  me  to  defend  and  guard  you, 
which  I  dare  accept  and  dare  assert ;  but  that  if  I  had  that 
right,  I  would  regard  it  as  a  trust  so  precious  and  so  priceless, 
that  the  undivided  truth  and  fervor  of  my  life  would  poorly  ac- 
knowledge its  worth." 

The  head  was  still  bent  down,  the  tears  still  falling,  and  the 
bosom  swelling  with  its  sobs, 

"  Dear  Florence  !  Dearest  Florence  !  whom  I  called  so  in 
my  thoughts  before  I  could  consider  how  presumptuous  and 
wild  it  was.  One  last  time  let  me  call  you  by  your  own  dear 
name,  and  touch  this  gentle  hand  in  token  of  your  sisterly  for- 
getfulness  of  wliat  I  have  said." 

She  raised  her  head,  and  spoke  to  him  with  such  a  solemn 
sweetness  in  her  eyes  ;  with  such  a  calm,  bright,  placid  rmile 
shining  on  him  through  her  tears ;  with  such  a  low,  soft  trem- 
ble in  her  frame  and  voice  ;  that  the  innermost  chords  of  his 
heart  were  touched,  and  his  sight  was  dim  as  he  listened. 

"  No,  Walter,  I  cannot  forget  it.  I  would  not  forget  it,  for 
the  world.     Are  you — are  you  very  poor  ?  " 

"  I  am  but  a  wanderer,"  said  Walter,  "  making  voyages  to 
live  across  the  sea.     That  is  my  calling  now." 

"  Are  you  soon  going  away  again,  Walter  ?  " 

**  Very  soon." 

She  sat  looking  at  him  for  a  moment ;  then  timidly  put  her 
trembling  hand  in  his, 

"  If  you  will  take  nic  for  your  wife.  \\'alter,  I  will  love  yoii 


MI^.  TOOTS' S  COMPLAINT.  (^-^(^ 

dearly.  If  you  will  let  me  go  with  you,  Walter,  I  will  go  to  the 
world's  end  without  fear.  I  can  give  up  nothing  for  you — I 
have  nothing  to  resign,  and  no  one  to  forsake  ;  but  all  my  love 
and  life  shall  be  devoted  to  you,  and  with  my  last  breath  I 
will  breathe  your  name  to  God  if  I  have  sense  and  memory 
left." 

He  caught  her  to  his  heart,  and  laid  her  cheek  against  his 
own,  and  now,  no  more  repulsed,  no  more  forlorn,  she  wept  in- 
deed, upon  the  breast  of  her  dear  lover. 

Blessed  Sunday  Bells,  ringing  so  tranquilly  in  their  en- 
tranced and  happy  ears  !  Blessed  Sunday  peace  and  quiet, 
harmonizing  with  the  calmness  in  their  souls,  and  making  holy 
air  around  them  !  Blessed  twilight  stealing  on,  and  shading 
her  so  soothingly  and  gravely,  as  she  falls  asleep,  like  a  hushed 
child,  upon  the  bosom  she  has  clung  to  ! 

Oh  load  of  love  and  trustfulness  that  lies  so  lightly  there  ! 
Ay,  look  down  on  the  closed  eyes,  Walter,  with  a  proudly  ten- 
der gaze  ;  for  in  all  the  wide  wide  world  they  seek  but  thee 
now — only  thee  ! 

The  Captain  remained  in  the  little  parlor  until  it  was  quite 
dark.  He  took  the  chair  on  which  Walter  had  been  sitting, 
and  looked  up  at  the  skylight,  until  the  day,  by  little  and  little, 
faded  away,  and  the  stars  peeped  down.  He  lighted  a  candle, 
lighted  a  pipe,  smoked  it  out,  and  wondered  what  on  earth  was 
going  on  up  stairs,  and  why  they  didn't  call  him  to  tea. 

Florence  came  to  his  side  while  he  was  in  the  height  of  his 
wonderment. 

"  Ay  !  lady  lass  ! "  cried  the  Captain.  "  Why,  you  and 
Wal'r  have  had  a  long  spell  o'  talk,  my  beauty." 

Florence  put  her  little  hand  round  one  of  the  great  buttons 
of  his  coat,  and  said,  looking  down  into  his  face  : 

*'  Dear  Captain,  I  want  to  tell  you  something,  if  you  please." 

The  Captain  raised  his  head  pretty  smartly,  to  hear  what  it 
was.  Catching  by  this  means  a  more  distinct  view  of  Flor- 
ence, he  pushed  back  his  chair,  and  himself  with  it  as  far  as 
they  could  go. 

"  What !  Heart's  Delight !  "  cried  the  Captain,  suddenly 
elated.     "Is  it  that?" 

"  Yes  !  "  said  Florence,  eagerly. 

"  Wal'r  !  Husband  !  That  ?  "  roared  the  Captain,  tossing 
up  his  glazed  hat  into  the  skylight. 

"  Yes  1  "  cried  Florence,  laughing  and  crying  together. 

The   Captain  immediately  hugged  her ;  and  then,  picking 


^go  no.uni-y  AA'O  so.v. 

up  the  glazed  hut  and  putting  it  on,  drew  her  arm  through  his, 
and  conducted  her  up  stairs  again  where  he  felt  that  the  great 
joke  of  his  life  was  now  to  be  made. 

"  What,  Wal'r  my  lad  !  "  said  the  Captain,  looking  in  at  the 
door,  with  his  face  like  an  amiable  warming-pan.  "  So  there 
ain't  NO  other  character,  ain't  there  ?  " 

He  had  like  to  have  suffocated  liimself  with  this  pleasantrj', 
■which  he  repeated  at  least  forty  times  during  tea  ;  polishing 
his  radiant  face  with  the  sleeve  of  his  coat,  and  dabbing  his 
head  all  over  with  his  pocket-handkerchief,  in  the  intervals. 
But  he  was  not  without  a  graver  source  of  enjoyment  to  fall 
back  upon,  when  so  disposed,  for  he  was  repeatedly  heard  to 
say  in  an  undertone,  as  he  looked  with  ineffable  delight  at 
Walter  and  Florence  : 

"  Ed'ard  Cuttle,  my  lad,  you  never  shaped  a  better  course 
in  your  life,  than  when  you  made  that  there  little  property 
over,  jintly  I " 


CHAPTER  LI. 

MR.    DOM  BEY   AND   THE   WORLD. 


What  is  the  proud  man  doing,  while  the  days  go  by  ?  Does 
he  ever  think  of  his  daughter,  or  wonder  where  she  is  gone  ? 
Does  he  suppose  she  has  come  home,  and  is  leading  her  old 
life  in  the  weary  house  ?  No  one  can  answer  for  him.  He 
has  never  uttered  her  name,  since.  His  household  dread  him 
too  much  to  approach  a  subject  on  which  he  is  resolutely 
dumb  ;  and  the  only  person  who  dare  question  him,  he  silences 
immediately. 

"My  dear  Paul!"  murmurs  his  sister,  sliding  into  the 
room,  on  the  day  of  Florence's  departure,  "your  wife  !  that  up- 
start woman  !  Is  it  possible  that  what  I  hear  confusedly,  is 
true,  and  that  this  is  her  return  for  your  unparalleled  devotion 
to  her ;  extending,  I  am  sure,  even  to  the  sacritice  of  your  own 
relations,  to  her  caprices  and  haughtiness  ?  My  poor  brother!" 

With  this  speech,  feelingly  reminiscent  of  her  not  having 
been  asked  to  dinner  on  the  day  of  the  first  party,  Mrs.  Chick 
makes  great  use  of  her  pocket-handkerchief,  and  falls  on  ^^r. 
Dombey's  neck.  But  Mr.  Dombey  frigidly  lifts  her  oil,  and 
^ands  her  to  a  chair. 


MR.  DOMBEY  AND  THE  WORLD.  68 1 

"  I  thank  you,  Louisa,"  he  says,  "for  this  mark  of  your 
affection  ;  but  desire  that  our  conversation  may  refer  to  any 
other  subject.  Wlien  I  bewail  my  fate,  Louisa,  or  express  my- 
self as  being  in  want  of  consolation,  you  can  offer  it,  if  you 
will  have  the  goodness." 

"  My  dear  Paul,"  rejoins  his  sister,  with  her  handkerchief 
to  her  face,  and  shaking  her  head,  "  I  know  your  great  spirit, 
and  will  say  no  more  upon  a  theme  so  painful  and  revolting ; " 
on  the  heads  of  which  two  adjectives,  Mrs.  Chick  visits  scath- 
ing indignation  ;  "  but  pray  let  me  ask  you — though  I  dread  to 
hear  something  that  will  shock  and  distress  me — that  unfor- 
tunate child  Florence " 

"  Louisa  !  "  says  her  brother,  sternly,  "  silence.  Not  an- 
other word  of  this  !  " 

Mrs.  Chick  can  only  shake  her  head,  and  use  her  handker- 
chief, and  moan  over  degenerate  Dombeys,  who  are  no  Dom- 
beys.  But  whether  Florence  has  been  inculpated  in  the  flight 
of  Edith,  or  has  followed  her,  or  has  done  too  much,  or  too 
little,  or  anything,  or  nothing,  she  has  not  the  least  idea. 

He  goes  on,  without  deviation,  keeping  his  thoughts  and 
feelings  close  within  his  own  breast,  and  imparting  them  to  no 
one.  He  makes  no  search  for  his  daughter.  He  may  think 
that  she  is  with  his  sister,  or  that  she  is  under  his  own  roof. 
He  may  think  of  her  constantly,  or  he  may  never  think  about 
her.     It  is  all  one  for  any  sign  he  makes. 

But  this  is  sure ;  he  does  not  think  that  he  has  lost  her. 
He  has  no  suspicion  of  the  truth.  He  has  lived  too  long  shut 
up  in  his  towering  supremacy,  seeing  her,  a  patient  gentle 
creature,  in  the  path  below  it,  to  have  any  fear  of  that.  Shaken 
as  he  is  by  his  disgrace,  he  is  not  yet  humbled  to  the  level 
earth.  The  root  is  broad  and  deep,  and  in  the  course  of  years 
its  fibres  have  spread  out  and  gathered  nourishment  from  every- 
thing around  it.     The  tree  is  struck,  but  not  down. 

Though  he  hide  the  world  within  him  from  the  world  with- 
out— which  he  believes  has  but  one  purpose  for  the  time,  and 
that,  to  watch  him  eagerly  wherever  he  goes — he  cannot  hide 
those  rebel  traces  of  it,  which  escape  in  hollow  eyes  and  cheeks, 
a  haggard  forehead,  and  a  moody,  brooding  air.  Impenetrable 
as  before,  he  is  still  an  altered  man  :  and,  proud  as  ever,  he  is 
humbled,  or  those  marks  would  not  be  there. 

The  world.  What  the  world  thinks  of  him,  how  it  looks  at 
him,  what  it  sees  in  him,  and  what  it  says — this  is  the  haunting 
demon  of  his  mind.  It  is  everywhere  where  he  is  :  and,  worse 
than  that,  it  is  everywhere  where  he  is  not.    It  comes  out  with 


6S2  DOMBEY  AND  SOX. 

him  among  his  servants,  and  yet  he  leaves  it  whispering  behind, 
he  sees  it  pointing  after  him  in  the  street ;  it  is  wailing  for  him 
in  his  counting-house  ;  it  leers  over  the  shoulders  of  rich  men 
among  the  merchants  ;  it  goes  beckoning  and  babbling  among 
the  crowd  ;  it  always  anticipates  liim,  in  every  place  ;  and  is  al- 
ways busiest,  he  knows,  when  he  has  gone  away.  When  he  is 
shut  up  in  his  room  at  night,  it  is  in  his  house,  outside  it,  audible 
in  footsteps  on  the  pavement,  visible  in  print  upon  the  table, 
steaming  to  and  fro  on  railroads  and  in  ships  :  restless  and  busy 
everywhere,  with  nothing  else  but  him. 

It  is  not  a  phantom  of  his  imagination.  It  is  as  active  in 
other  people's  minds  as  in  his.  Witness  Cousin  Feenix,  who 
comes  from  Baden-Baden,  purposely  to  talk  to  him.  Witness 
Major  Bagstock,  who  accompanies  Cousin  Feenix  on  that 
friendly  mission. 

Mr.  Dombey  receives  them  with  his  usual  dignity,  and  stands 
erect,  in  his  old  attitude,  before  the  fire.  He  feels  that  the 
world  is  looking  at  him  out  of  their  eyes.  That  it  is  in  the  stare 
of  the  pictures.  That  Mr.  Pitt,  upon  the  book-case,  represents 
it.     That  there  are  eyes  in  its  own  map,  hanging  on  the  wall. 

*'  An  unusually  cold  spring,"  says  Mr.  Dombey — to  deceive 
the  world. 

"  Damme,  Sir,"  says  tjie  Major,  in  the  warmth  of  friendship, 
"Joseph  Bagstock  is  a  bad  hand  at  a  counterfeit.  If  you  want 
to  hold  your  friends  off,  Dombey,  and  to  give  them  the  cold 
shoulder,  J.  B.  is  not  the  man  for  your  purpose.  Joe  is  rough 
and  tough.  Sir  ;  blunt.  Sir,  blunt,  is  Joe.  His  Royal  Highness 
the  late  Duke  of  York  did  me  the  honor  to  say,  deser\edly  or 
undeservedly — never  mind  that — 'If  there  is  a  man  in  the  ser- 
vice on  whom  I  can  depend  for  coming  to  the  point,  that  man  is 
Joe — Joe  Bagstock.'  " 

Mr.  Dombey  intimates  his  acquiescence. 

"  Now,  Dombey,"  says  the  Major,  "  I  am  a  man  of  the  world. 
Our  friend  Feenix — if  I  may  presume  to — " 

"  Honored,  I  am  sure,"  says  Cousin  Feenix. 

" — Is,"  proceeds  the  Major,  with  a  wag  of  his  head,  "also  a 
man  of  the  world,  Dombey,  iw/  are  a  man  of  the  world.  Now, 
when  three  men  of  the  world  meet  together,  and  are  friends — 
as  I  believe" — again  appealing  to  Cousin  Feenix. 

"I  am  sure,"  says  Cousin  Feenix,  "most  friendly." 

" — And  are  friends,"  resumes  the  Major,  "Old  Joe's  opinion 
is  (J.  may  be  wrong),  that  the  opinion  of  the  world  on  any  par 
ticular  subject,  is  very  easily  got  at." 

"  Undoubtedly,"  says  Cousin  Feenix.     "  In  point  of  fact,  it's 


MR.  DOMBEY  AND  THE  WORLD.  6S3 

quite  a  self-evident  sort  of  thing.  I  am  extremely  anxious, 
Major,  that  my  friend  Dombey  should  hear  me  express  my  very 
great  astonishment  and  regret,  that  my  lovely  and  accomplished 
relative,  who  was  possessed  of  every  qualification  to  make  a 
man  happy,  should  have  so  far  forgotten  what  was  due  to — in 
point  of  fact,  to  the  world — as  to  commit  herself  in  such  a  very 
extraordinary  manner.  I  have  been  in  a  devilish  state  of  de- 
pression ever  since  ;  and  said,  indeed,  to  Long  Saxby  last  night 
— man  of  six  foot  ten,  with  whom  my  friend  Dombey  is  prob- 
ably acquainted — that  it  had  upset  me  in  a  confounded  way,  and 
made  me  bilious.  It  induces  a  man  to  reflect,  this  kind  of  fatal 
catastrophe,"  says  Cousin  P^eenix,  "  that  events  do  occur  in  quite 
a  Providential  manner;  for  if  my  Aunt  had  been  living  at  the 
time,  I  think  the  effect  upon  a  devilish  lively  woman  like  her- 
self, would  have  been  prostration,  and  that  she  would  have 
fallen,  in  point  of  fact,  a  victim." 

"  Now,  Dombey  !  — "  says  the  Major,  resuming  his  discourse 
with  great  energy. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  interposes  Cousin  Feenix.  "  Allow 
me  another  word.  My  friend  Dombey  will  permit  me  to  say, 
that  if  any  circumstance  could  have  added  to  the  most  infernal 
state  of  pain  in  which  I  find  myself  on  this  occasion,  it  would  be 
the  natural  amazement  of  the  world  at  my  lovely  and  accom- 
plished relative  (as  I  must  still  beg  leave  to  call  her)  being  sup- 
posed to  have  so  committed  herself  with  a  person — man  with 
white  teeth  in  point  of  fact — of  very  inferior  station  to  her 
husband.  But  while  I  must,  rather  peremptorily,  request  my 
friend  Dombey  not  to  criminate  my  lovely  and  accomplished 
relative  until  her  criminality  is  perfectly  established,  I  beg  to 
assure  my  friend  Dombey  that  the  family  I  represent,  and  which 
is  now  almost  extinct  (devilish  sad  reflection  for  a  man),  will 
interpose  no  obstacle  in  his  way,  and  will  be  happy  to  assent  to 
any  honorable  course  of  proceeding,  with  a  view  to  the  future, 
that  he  may  point  out.  I  trust  my  friend  Dombey  will  give  me 
credit  for  the  intentions  by  which  I  am  animated  in  this  very 
melancholy  affair,  and — a — in  point  of  fact,  I  am  not  aware 
that  I  need  trouble  my  friend  Dombey  with  any  further  obser- 
vations." 

Mr.  Dombey  bows,  without  raising  his  eyes,  and  is  silent. 

"  Now,  Dombey,"  says  the  Major,  "  our  friend  Feenix  having 
■with  an  amount  of  eloquence  that  Old  Joe  B.  has  never  heard 
surpassed — no,  by  the  Lord,  Sir  !  never  !  " — says  the  Major, 
very  blue,  indeed,  and  grasping  his  cane  in  the  middle — "  stated 
tlie  case  as  regards  the  lady,  I  shall  presume  upon  our  friend 


684  DOMPEY  AiVD  SOiV. 

ship,  Dombey,  to  offer  a  word  on  another  aspect  of  it.  Sir/ 
says  the  Major,  with  the  horse's  cough,  "the  world  in  these 
things  has  opinions,  which  must  be  satisfied." 

"  I  know  it,"  rejoins  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  Of  course  you  know  it,  Dombey,"  says  the  Major. 
"  Damme,  Sir,  I  know  you  know  it.  A  man  of  your  caUbre  is 
not  likely  to  be  ignorant  of  it." 

"  I  hope  not,"  replies  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  Dombey  !  "  says  tlie  Major,  "  you  will  guess  the  rest.  I 
speak  out — prematurely,  perhaps — because  the  Bagstock  breed 
have  always  spoken  out.  Little,  Sir,  have  they  ever  got  by 
doing  it :  but  it's  in  the  Bagstock  blood.  As  hot  is  to  be  taken 
at  this  man.  You  have  J.  B.  at  your  elbow.  He  claims  the 
name  of  friend.     God  bless  you  !  " 

"  Major,"  returns  Mr.  Dombey,  "  I  am  obliged.  I  shall  put 
myself  in  your  hands  when  the  time  comes.  The  time  not 
bieng  come,  I  have  forborne  to  speak  to  you." 

"  Where  is  the  fellow,  Dombey  ?  "  inquires  the  Major,  after 
gasping  and  looking  at  him  for  a  minute. 

"  I  don't  know." 

"Any  intelligence  of  him?"  asks  the  Major. 

"Yes." 

"  Dombey,  I  am  rejoiced  to  hear  it,"  says  the  Major.  "  I 
congratulate  you." 

"  You  will  excuse — even  you,  Major,"  replies  Mr.  Dombey, 
"  my  entering  into  any  further  detail  at  present.  The  intelli- 
gence is  of  a  singular  kind,  and  singularly  obtained.  It  may 
turn  out  to  be  valueless  ;  it  may  turn  out  to  be  true  ;  I  cannot 
say  at  present.     My  explanation  must  stop  here." 

Although  this  is  but  a  dry  reply  to  the  Major's  purple  en- 
thusiasm, the  Major  receives  it  graciously,  and  is  delighted  to 
think  that  the  world  has  such  a  fair  prospect  of  soon  receiving 
its  due.  Cousin  Fecnix  is  then  presented  with  his  meed  of 
acknowledgment  by  the  husband  of  his  lovely  and  accom- 
plished relative,  and  Cousin  Feenix  and  Major  Bagstock  retire, 
leaving  that  husband  to  the  world  again,  and  to  ponder  at 
leisure  on  their  representation  of  its  state  of  mind  concerning 
his  affairs,  and  on  its  just  and  reasonable  expectations. 

But  who  sits  in  the  housekeeper's  room,  shedding  tears,  and 
talking  to  Mrs.  Pipchin  in  a  low  tone,  with  uplifted  hands  ?  It 
is  a  lady  with  her  face  concealed  in  a  very  close  black  bonnet, 
which  appears  not  to  belong  to  her.  It  is  Miss  Tox,  who  has 
borrowed  this  disguise  from  her  servant,  and  comes  from  Prin- 
cess's Place,  thus  secretly  to  revive  her  old  acquaintance  with 


Mr.  DOiMBEY  AA'D   J'HE   WORLD.  685 

Mrs.  Pipchin,  in  order  to  get  certain  information  of  the  state 
of  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  How  does  he  bear  it,  my  dear  creature  ?  "  asks  Miss  Tox. 

"  Well,"  says  Mrs.  Pipchin,  in  her  snappish  way,  "  he's 
pretty  much  as  usual." 

"  Externally,"  suggests  Miss  Tox.  "  But  what  he  feels 
within !  " 

Mrs  Pipchin's  hard  gray  eye  looks  doubtful  as  she  answers^ 
in  three  distinct  jerks,  "  Ah  !     Perhaps.     I  suppose  so." 

"To  tell  you  my  mind,  Lucretia,"  says  Mrs.  Pipchin;  she 
still  calls  Miss  Tox  Lucretia,  on  account  of  having  made  her 
first  experiments  in  the  child-quelling  line  of  business  on  that 
lady,  when  an  unfortunate  and  weazen  little  girl  of  tender 
years ;  "  to  tell  you  my  mind,  Lucretia,  I  think  it's  a  good 
riddance.    I  don't  want  any  of  your  brazen  faces  here,  myself  !  " 

"  Brazen  indeed!  Well  may  you  say  brazen,  Mrs.  Pipchin  !  " 
returns  Miss  Tox.  "  To  leave  him  !  Such  a  noble  figure  of  a 
man  !  "     And  here  Miss  Tox  is  overcome. 

"  I  don't  know  about  noble,  I'm  sure,"  observes  Mrs.  Pip- 
chin, irascibly  rubbing  her  nose.  "  But  I  know  this — that 
when  people  meet  with  trials,  they  must  bear  'em.  Hoity- 
toity  !  I  have  had  enough  to  bear  myself,  in  my  time  !  What 
a  fuss  there  is !  She's  gone  and  well  got  rid  of.  Nobody 
wants  her  back,  I  should  think  !  " 

This  hint  of  the  Peruvian  Mines,  causes  Miss  Tox  to  rise 
to  go  away ;  when  Mrs.  Pipchin  rings  the  bell  for  Towlinson  to 
show  her  out.  Mr.  Towlinson,  not  having  seen  Miss  Tox  for 
ages,  grins,  and  hopes  she's  well ;  observing  that  he  didn't 
know  her  at  first,  in  that  bonnet. 

"  Pretty  well,  Towlinson,  I  thank  you,"  says  Miss  Tox. 
"  I  beg  you'll  have  the  goodness,  when  you  happen  to  see  me 
here,  not  to  mention  it.    My  visits  are  merely  to  Mrs.  Pipchin." 

"Very  good.  Miss,"  says  Towlinson. 

"  Shocking  circumstances  occur,"  says  Miss  Tox. 

"Very  much  so  indeed,  Miss,"  rejoins  Towlinson. 

"  I  hope,  Towlinson,"  says  Miss  Tox,  who,  in  her  instruc- 
tion of  the  Toodle  family,  has  acquired  an  admonitorial  tone, 
and  a  habit  of  improving  passing  occasions,  "  that  what  has 
happened  here,  will  be  a  warning  to  you,  Towlinson." 

"Thank  you.  Miss,  I'm  sure,"  says  Towlinson. 

He  appears  to  be  falling  into  a  consideration  of  the  manner 
in  which  this  warning  ought  to  operate  in  his  particular  case, 
when  the  vinegary  Mrs.  Pipchin,  suddenly  stirring  him  up  with 
A  "  What  are  you  doing  ?     Why  don't  you  show  the  lady  to  the 


^^  DOM  BEY  A  XD  SON: 

door?"  he  ushers  Miss  Tox  forth.  As  she  passes  Mr.  Dom 
bey's  room,  she  shrhiks  into  the  inmost  depths  of  the  black 
bonnet,  and  walks  on  tiptoe  ;  and  there  is  not  another  atom  in 
the  world  which  haunts  him  so,  that  feels  such  sorrow  and 
solicitude  about  him,  as  Miss  Tox  takes  out  under  the  black 
bonnet  into  the  street,  and  tries  to  carry  home  shadowed  from 
the  newly-lighted  lamps. 

But  Miss  Tox  is  not  a  part  of  Mr.  Dombey's  world.  She 
comes  back  every  evening  at  dusk  ;  adding  clogs  and  an  um- 
brella to  the  bonnet  on  wet  nights  ;  and  bears  the  grins  of  Tow- 
linson,  and  the  huffs  and  rebuffs  of  Mrs.  Pipchin,  and  all  to 
ask  how  he  does,  and  how  he  bears  his  misfortune  ;  but  she 
has  nothing  to  do  with  Mr.  Dombey's  world.  Exacting  and 
harassing  as  ever,  it  goes  on  without  her  ;  and  she,  a  by  no 
means  bright  or  particular  star,  inoves  in  her  little  orbit  in  the 
corner  of  another  system,  and  knows  it  quite  well,  and  comes, 
and  cries,  and  goes  away,  and  is  satisfied.  Verily  Miss  Tox  is 
easier  of  satisfaction  than  the  world  that  troubles  Mr.  Dombey 
so  much  ! 

At  the  Counting  House,  the  clerks  discuss  the  great  disaster 
in  all  its  lights  and  shades,  but  chiefly  wonder  who  will  get  Mr. 
Carker's  place.  They  are  generally  of  opinion  that  it  will  be 
shorn  of  some  of  its  emoluments,  and  made  uncomfortable  by 
newly-devised  checks  and  restrictions ;  and  those  who  are 
beyond  all  hope  of  it,  are  quite  sure  they  would  rather  not  have 
it,  and  don't  at  all  envy  the  person  for  whom  it  may  prove  to 
be  reserved.  Nothing  like  the  prevailing  sensation  has  existed 
in  the  Counting  House  since  Mr.  Dombey's  little  son  died  ; 
but  all  such  excitements  there  take  a  social,  not  to  say  a  jovial 
turn,  and  lead  to  the  cultivation  of  good  fellowship.  A  recon- 
ciliation is  established  on  this  propitious  occasion  between  the 
acknowledged  wit  of  the  Counting  House  and  an  aspiring  rival, 
with  whom  he  has  been  at  deadly  feud  for  months  ;  and  a  little 
dinner  being  proposed,  in  commemoration  of  their  happily 
restored  amity,  takes  place  at  a  neighboring  tavern  ;  the  wit  in 
the  chair ;  the  rival  acting  as  Vice-President.  The  orations 
following  the  removal  of  tiie  cloth  are  opened  by  the  Chair,  who 
says,  Gentlemen,  he  can't  disguise  from  himself  that  this  is  not 
a  lime  for  private  dissensions.  Recent  occurrences  to  which 
he  need  not  more  particularly  allude,  but  which  have  not  been 
altogether  without  notice  in  some  Sunday  I'apers,  and  in  a  daily 
paper  which  he  need  not  name  (here  every  other  member  of  the 
company  names  it  in  an  audible  murnuir),  have  caused  him  to  re- 
flect ;  and  he  feels  that  for  him  and  Robinson  to  have  any  per- 


MR.  DOMBEY  AND  THE  WORLD.  6S7 

i.onal  differences  at  such  a  moment,  would  be  for  ever  to  deny 
ihat  good  feeling  in  the  general  cause,  for  which  he  has  reason 
to  think  and  hope  that  the  gentlemen  in  Dombey's  House  have 
always  been  distinguished.  Robinson  replies  to  this  like  a 
man  and  a  brother  ;  and  one  gentleman  who  has  been  in  the 
office  three  years,  under  continual  notice  to  quit  on  account  of 
laf  ses  in  his  arithmetic,  appears  in  a  perfectly  new  light,  sud- 
denly bursting  out  with  a  thrilling  speech,  in  which  he  says, 
May  their  respected  chief  never  again  know  the  desolation 
which  has  fallen  on  his  hearth  !  and  says  a  great  variety  of 
things  beginning  with  "  May  he  never  again,"  which  are 
received  with  thunders  of  applause.  In  short,  a  most  delight- 
ful evening  is  passed,  only  interrupted  by  a  difference  between 
two  juniors,  who,  quarrelling  about  the  probable  amount  of  Mr. 
Carker's  late  receipts  per  annum,  defy  each  other  with  decan- 
ters, and  are  taken  out  greatly  excited.  Soda  water  is  in 
general  request  at  the  office  next  day,  and  most  of  the  party 
deem  the  bill  an  imposition. 

As  to  Perch,  the  messenger,  he  is  in  a  fair  way  of  being 
ruined  for  life.  He  finds  himself  again  constantly  in  bars  of 
public  houses,  being  treated  and  lying  dreadfully.  It  appears 
that  he  met  everybody  concerned  in  the  late  transaction,  every- 
where, and  said  to  them,  "  Sir,"  or  "  Madam,"  as  the  case 
was,  "  why  do  you  look  so  pale  ?  "  at  which  each  shuddered 
from  head  to  foot,  and  said,  "  Oh,  Perch  !  "  and  ran  away. 
Either  the  consciousness  of  these  enormities,  or  the  reaction 
consequent  on  liquor,  reduces  Mr.  Perch  to  an  exti'eme  state 
of  low  spirits  at  that  hour  of  the  evening  when  he  usually  seeks 
consolation  in  the  society  of  Mrs.  Perch  at  Ball's  Pond  ;  and 
Mrs.  Perch  frets  a  good  deal,  for  she  fears  his  confidence  in 
woman  is  shaken  now,  and  that  he  half  expects  on  coming 
home  at  night  to  find  her  gone  off  with  some  Viscount. 

Mr.  Dombey's  servants  are  becoming,  at  the  same  time 
quite  dissipated,  and  unfit  for  other  service.  They  have  hot 
suppers  every  night,  and  "  talk  it  over  "  with  smoking  drinks 
upon  the  board.  Mr.  Towlinson  is  always  maudlin  after  half- 
past  ten,  and  frequently  begs  to  know  whether  he  didn't  say 
that  no  good  would  ever  come  of  living  in  a  corner  house  > 
They  whisper  about  Miss  Florence,  and  wonder  where  she  is  ; 
but  agree  that  if  Mr.  Dombey  don't  know,  Mrs.  Dombey  does. 
This  brings  them  to  the  latter,  of  whom  Cook  says,  She  had  a 
stately  way  though,  hadn't  she  ?  But  she  was  too  high  !  They 
all  agree  that  she  was  too  high,  and  Mr.  Towlinson's  old  flame, 
the  ho  asemiid  (who  is  very  virtuous),  entreats  that  you  will  never 


688  ])OMliJ:V  AND  SOsW 

talk  to  her  any  more  about  people  who  holds  their  heads  up,  as 
if  the  ground  wasn't  good  enough  for  '  em. 

Everything  that  is  said  and  done  about  it,  except  by  Mr. 
Dombey,  is  done  in  chorus.  Mr.  Dombey  and  the  world  are 
alone  together. 


CHAPTER  LII. 

ECRET     INTELLIGENC 


Good  Mrs.  Brown  and  her  daughter  Alice,  kept  silent  com- 
pany together,  in  their  own  dwelling.  It  was  early  in  the  even- 
ing, and  late  in  the  spring.  But  a  few  days  had  elapsed  since 
Mr.  Dombey  had  told  Major  Bagstock  of  his  singular  intelli- 
gence, singularly  obtained,  which  might  turn  out  to  be  valueless, 
and  might  turn  out  to  be  true  ;  and  the  world  was  not  satisfied 
yet. 

'1  he  mother  and  daughter  sat  for  a  long  time  without  inter- 
changing a  word  ;' almost  without  motion,  'i'he  old  woman's 
face  was  shrewdly  anxious  and  expectant ;  that  of  her  daughter 
was  expectant  too,  but  in  a  less  sharp  degree,  and  sometimes  it 
darkened,  as  if  with  gathering  disappointment  and  incredulity. 
The  old  woman,  without  heeding  these  changes  in  its  expression, 
though  her  eyes  were  often  turned  towards  it,  sat  mumbling  and 
munching,  and  listening  confidently. 

Their  abode,  though  poor  and  miserable,  was  not  so  utterly 
wretched  as  in  the  days  when  only  good  Mrs.  Brown  inhabited 
it.  .Some  few  attempts  at  cleanliness  and  order  were  manifest, 
though  made  in  a  reckless,  gypsy  way,  that  might  have  con- 
nected them,  at  a  glance,  with  the  younger  woman"  The  shades 
of  evening  thickened  and  deepened  as  the  two  kept  silence, 
until  the  blackened  walls  were  nearly  lost  in  the  prevailing 
gloom. 

Then  Alice  broke  the  silence  which  had  lasted  so  long,  and 
said  : 

"  You  may  give  him  up,  mother.     He'll  not  come  here." 

"  Death  give  him  up  1  "  returned  the  old  woman,  impa- 
tiently.    "  He  7f'/// come  here." 

"  We  shall  see,"  said  Alice. 


SECRET  INTELLIGENCE.  68g 

"  We  shall  see  him''  returned  her  mother. 

"  And  doomsday,"  said  the  daughter. 

"  You  think  I'm  in  my  second  childhood,  I  know  !  "  croaked 
the  old  woman.  "  That's  the  respect  and  duty  that  I  get  from 
my  own  gal,  but  I'm  wiser  than  you  take  me  for.  He'll  come. 
T'other  day  when  I  touched  his  coat  in  the  street,  he  looked 
round  as  if  I  was  a  toad.  But  Lord,  to  see  him  when  I  said 
their  names,  and  asked  him  if  he'd  like  to  find  out  where  they 
was  !  " 

"Was  it  so  angry  ?  "  asked  her  daughter,  roused  to  interest 
in  a  moment. 

"  Angry  !  ask  if  it  was  bloody.  That's  more  like  the  word. 
Angry  !  Ha,  ha !  To  call  that  only  angry !  "  said  the  old 
woman,  hobbling  to  the  cupboard,  and  lighting  a  candle,  which 
displayed  the  workings  of  her  mouth  to  ugly  advantage,  as  she 
brought  it  to  the  table.  "  I  might  as  well  call  your  face  only 
angry,  when  you  think  or  talk  about  'em." 

It  was  something  different  from  that,  truly,  as  she  sat  as 
still  as  a  crouched  tigress,  with  her  kindling  eyes. 

"  Hark !  "  said  the  old  woman,  triumphantly.  "  I  hear  a 
step  coming.  It's  not  the  tread  of  any  one  that  lives  about 
here,  or  comes  this  way  often.  We  don't  walk  like  that.  We 
should  grow  proud  on  such  neighbors  !     Do  you  hear  him  ?  " 

"  I  believe  you  are  right,  mother,"  replied  Alice,  in  a  low 
voice.     "  Peace  !  open  the  door." 

As  she  drew  herself  within  her  shawl,  and  gathered  it  about 
her,  the  old  woman  complied  ;  and  peering  out,  and  beckoning, 
gave  admission  to  Mr.  Dombey,  who  stopped  when  he  had  set 
his  foot  within  the  door,  and  looked  distrustfully  around. 

"  It's  a  poor  place  for  a  great  gentleman  like  your  worship," 
said  the  old  woman,  curtseying  and  chattering.  "  I  told  you  so, 
but  there's  no  harm  in  it." 

"  Who  is  that  ? "  asked  Mr.  Dombey,  looking  at  her  com- 
panion. 

"That's  my  handsome  daughter,"  said  the  old  woman, 
•'  Your  worship  won't  mind  her.     She  knows  all  about  it." 

A  shadow  fell  upon  his  face  not  less  expressive  than  if  he 
had  groaned  aloud,  "Who  does  not  know  all  about  it !  "  but  he 
looked  at  her  steadily,  and  she,  without  any  acknowledgment 
of  his  presence,  looked  at  him.  The  shadow  on  his  face  was 
darker  when  he  turned  his  glance  away  from  her;  and  even 
then  it  wandered  back  again,  furtively,  as  if  he  were  haunted 
by  her  bold  eyes,  and  some  remembrance  they  inspired. 

"  Woman,"   said  Mr.   Dombey  to  the  old  witch  who  was 


690  DOMBEY  AAV  SO.V. 

chuckling  and  leering  close  at  his  elbow,  and  who,  when  he 
turned  to  address  her,  pointed  stealthily  at  her  daughter,  and 
rubbed  her  hands,  and  pointed  again.  "  Woman  !  I  believe  that 
I  am  weak  and  forgetful  of  my  station  m  coming  here,  but  you 
know  why  1  come,  and  what  you  offered  when  you  stopped  me 
in  the  street  the  other  day.  W  hat  is  it  that  you  have  to  tell  me 
concerning  what  I  want  to  know  ,  and  how  does  it  happen  that 
1  can  find  voluntary  intelligence  in  a  hovel  like  this,"  with  a 
disdainful  glance  about  him,  "  when  1  have  exerted  my  power 
and  means  to  obtain  it  in  vain  .?  I  do  not  think,"  he  said,  after  a 
moment's  pause,  during  which  he  had  observed  her  sternly, 
"  that  you  are  so  audacious  as  to  mean  to  trifle  with  me,  or 
endeavor  to  impose  upon  me.  But  if  you  have  that  purpose, 
you  had  better  stop  on  the  threshold  of  your  scheme.  My 
humor  is  not  a  tritiing  one,  and  my  acknowledgment  will  be 
severe." 

"  Oh,  a  proud,  hard  gentleman  !  "  chuckled  the  old  woman, 
shaking  her  head,  and  rubbing  her  shrivelled  hands.  "  Oh  hard, 
hard,  hard  !  But  your  worship  shall  see  with  your  own  eyes 
and  hear  with  your  own  ears  ;  not  with  ours— and  if  your  wor- 
ship's put  upon  their  track,  you  won't  mind  paying  something 
for  it  will  you,  honorable  deary  ?  " 

"  Money,"  returned  Mr.  Dombey,  apparently  relieved,  and 
re-assured  by  this  inquiry,  "  will  bring  about  unlikely  things,  I 
know.  It  may  turn  even  means  as  unexpected  and  unpromising 
as  these,  to  account.  Yes.  For  any  reliable  information  I  re- 
ceive, I  will  pay.  But  I  must  have  the  information  first,  and 
judge  for  myself  of  its  value." 

"  Do  you  know  nothing  more  powerful  than  money  ?  "  asked 
the  younger  woman,  without  rising,  or  altering  her  attitude. 
"Not  here,  I  should  imagine,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 
"  You  should  know  of  sometiiing  that  is  more  powerful  else- 
where, as  I  judge,"'  she  returned.  "  Do  you  know  nothing  of  a 
woman's  anger  ?  " 

"  You  have  a  saucy  tongue.  Jade,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 
"  Not  usually,"  she  answered,  without  any  show  of  emotion  : 
"  I  speak  to  you  now,  that  you  may  understand  us  better,  and 
rely  more  on  us.  A  woman's  anger  is  pretty  much  the  same 
here,  as  in  your  fine  house,  /am  angry.  I  have  been  so  many 
years.  1  have  as  good  cause  for  my  anger  as  you  have  for  yours, 
and  its  object  is  the  same  man." 

He  started,  in  spile  of  himself,  and  looked  at  her  with  as- 
tonishment. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  with  a  kind  of  laugh.     "  ^^■idc  as  the  dis- 


SECRE  T  INTELLIGENCE.  69 1 

tance  may  seem  between  us,  it  is  so.  Ho\t  it  is  so,  is  no  matter; 
that  is  my  story,  and  I  keep  my  story  to  myself.  I  would  bring 
you  and  him  together,  because  I  have  a  rage  against  him.  M)^ 
mother  there,  is  avaricious  and  poor  ;  and  she  would  sell  any 
tidings  she  could  glean,  or  anything,  or  anybody,  for  money. 
It  is  fair  enough,  perhaps,  that  you  should  pay  her  some,  if  she 
can  help  you  to  what  you  want  to  know.  But  that  is  not  my 
motive.  1  have  told  you  what  mine  is,  and  it  would  be  as  strong 
and  all  sufficient  with  me  if  you  haggled  and  bargained  with  her 
for  a  sixpence.  I  have  done.  My  saucy  tongue  says  no  more, 
if  you  wait  here  till  sunrise  to  morrow." 

The  old  woman,  who  had  shown  great  uneasiness  during  this 
speech,  which  had  a  tendency  to  depreciate  her  expected  gains, 
pulled  Mr.  Dombey  softly  by  the  sleeve,  and  whispered  to  him 
not  to  mind  her.  He  glanced  at  them  both,  by  turns,  with  a 
haggard  look,  and  said,  in  a  deeper  voice  than  was  usual  with 
him : 

"  Go  on — what  do  you  know  ?  " 

"  Oh,  not  so  fast,  your  worship  !  we  must  wait  for  some  one," 
answered  the  old  woman.  "  It's  to  be  got  from  some  one  else — 
wormed  out — screwed  and  twisted  from  him." 

"What  do  you  mean.?"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  Patience,"  she  croaked,  laying  her  hand,  like  a  claw,  upon 
his  arm.  "  Patience,  I'll  get  at  it.  1  know  I  can  !  If  he  was 
to  hold  it  back  from  me,"  said  good  Mrs.  Brown,  crooking  hef 
ten  fingers,  "  I'd  tear  it  out  of  him  !  " 

Mr.  Dombey  followed  her  with  his  eyes  as  she  hobbled  to 
the  door,  and  looked  out  again  ;  and  then  his  glance  sought 
her  daughter  ;  but  she  remained  impassive,  silent,  and  regard- 
less of  him. 

"  Do  you  tell  me,  woman,"  he  said,  when  the  bent  figure  of 
Mrs.  Brown  came  back,  shaking  its  head  and  chattering  to  itself, 
"  that  there  is  another  person  expected  here  ?  " 

"  Yes  !  "  said  the  old  woman,  looking  up  into  his  face,  and 
toodding. 

"  From  whom  you  are  to  exact  the  intelligence  that  is  to  be 
Useful  to  me.'" 

"  Yes,"  said  the  old  woman,  nodding  again. 

"  A  stranger?  " 

"  Chut !  "  said  the  old  woman,  with  a  shrill  laugh.  "  What 
signifies  ?  Well,  well  ;  no.  No  stranger  to  your  worship.  But 
he  won't  see  you.  He'd  be  afraid  of  you,  and  wouldn't  talk. 
You'll  stand  behind  that  door,  and  judge  him  for  yourself. 
We  don't  ask  to  be  believed  on  trust.    What !    A'Qur  worship 


692  DOMDEY  AXD  SOX 

doubts  the  room  behind  the  door  ?  Oh  the  suspicion  of  you 
rich  gentlefolks  !     Look  at  it,  then." 

Her  sharp  eye  had  detected  an  involuntary  expression  of 
this  feeling  on  his  part,  which  was  not  unreasonable  under  the 
circumstances.  In  satisfaction  of  it  she  now  took  the  candle  to 
the  door  she  spoke  of.  Mr.  Dombey  looked  in  ;  assured  him- 
self that  it  was  an  empty,  crazy  room  ;  and  signed  to  her  to  put 
the  light  back  in  its  place. 

"  How  long,"  he  asked,  "  before  this  person  comes  ?  " 

"  Not  long,"  she  answered.  "Would  your  worship  sit  down 
for  a  few  odd  minutes  ?  " 

He  made  no  answer  ;  but  began  pacing  the  room  with  an 
irresolute  air,  as  if  he  were  undecided  whether  to  remain  or  de- 
part, and  as  if  he  had  some  quarrel  with  himself  for  being  there 
at  all.  But  soon  his  tread  grew  slower  and  heavier,  and  his 
face  more  sternly  thoughtful  :  as  the  object  with  which  he  had 
come  fixed  itself  in  his  mind,  and  dilated  there  again. 

While  he  thus  walked  up  and  down  with  his  eyes  on  the 
ground,  Mrs.  Brown,  in  the  chair  from  which  she  had  risen  to 
receive  him,  sat  listening  anew.  The  monotony  of  his  step,  or 
the  uncertainty  of  age,  made  her  so  slow  of  hearing,  that  afoot- 
fall  without  had  sounded  in  her  daughter's  ears  for  some 
moments,  and  she  had  looked  up  hastily  to  warn  her  mother  of 
its  approach,  before  the  old  woman  was  roused  by  it.  But  then 
she  started  from  her  seat,  and  whispering  "  Here  he  is  !  "  hur- 
ried her  visitor  to  his  place  of  observation,  and  put  a  bottle  and 
glass  upon  the  table,  with  such  alacrity  as  to  be  ready  to  fiing 
her  arms  round  the  neck  of  Rob  the  Grinder  on  his  appearance 
at  the  door. 

"  And  here's  my  bonny  boy,"  cried  Mrs.  Brown,  "  at  last ! — 
oho,  oho  !     You're  like  my  own  son,  Robby  !  " 

"  Oh  !  Misses  l'.rown  !  "  remonstrated  the  Orinder.  "  Don't ! 
Can't  you  be  fond  of  a  cove  without  squeedging  and  throttling 
of  him  !     Take  care  of  the  bird-cage  in  my  hand,  will  you  ?  " 

"  Thinks  of  a  bird-cage,  afore  me  !  "  cried  the  old  woman, 
apostrophizing  the  ceiling.  "  Me  that  feels  more  than  a  mother 
for  him  ! " 

"  Well,  I'm  sure  I'm  very  much  obliged  to  you,  Misses  Brown," 
said  the  unfortunate  youth,  greatly  aggravated  ;  "  but  you're  so 
jealous  of  a  cove.  I'm  very  fond  of  you  myself,  and  all  that,  of 
course  ;  but  I  don't  smother  you.  do  I,  Misses  Brown  .''" 

He  looked  and  spoke  as  if  he  would  have  been  far  from 
objecting  to  do  so  however,  on  a  favorblo  occasion. 

"  And  to  talk  about  bird-cages,  too  !  "  whimpered  the  Grinder. 


SnCk'K'r  IXTKI.IJul-'.XCE.  69.^ 

*' As  if  that  was  a  crime  !  Why,  look'ec  here!  Do  you  know 
who  this  belongs  to  ?  " 

"To  Master,  dear  ? "  said  the  old  woman  with  a  grin. 

"Ah  !  "  replied  the  Giinder,  lifting  a  large  cage  tied  up  in  a 
wrapper,  on  the  tal)le,  and  untying  it  with  his  teeth  and  hands. 
"  It's  our  parrot,  this  is." 

"  Mr.  (barker's  parrot,  Rob?  " 

"Will  you  hold  your  tongue,  Tkfisses  P.rown  ?  "  returned  the 
goadeil  Crinder.  "  What  do^  you  go  naming  names  for?  I'm 
blest,"  said  Rob,  pulling  his  hair  with  both  hands  in  the  exas- 
peration of  his  feelings,  "  if  she  ain't  enough  to  make  a  cove 
run  wild  !  " 

"  What  !  Do  you  snub  me,  thankless  boy  ?  "  cried  the  old 
woman,  with  ready  vehemence. 

"Good  gracious,  Misses  Brown,  no  I  "  returned  the  Grinder, 

with  tears  in  his  eyes.     "Was  there  ever  such  a  ! Don't  I 

dote  upon  you,  Misses  Rrown  ?  " 

"  Do  you,  sweet  Rob  ?  Do  you  truly,  chickabiddy  ?  "  With 
that,  Mrs.  Brown  held  him  in  her  fond  embrace  once  more  ;  and 
did  not  release  him  until  he  had  made  several  violent  and  uiefTec- 
tual  struggles  with  his  legs,  and  his  hair  was  standing  on  end  all 
over  his  head. 

"Oh!"  returned  the  Grinder,  "what  a  thing  it  is  to  be  per- 
fectly pitched  into  with  affection  like  this  here.  I  wish  she 
was .     How  have  you  been,  Misses  Brown  ?  " 

"Ah!  Not  here  since  this  night  week!"  said  the  old 
woman,  contemplating  him  with  a  look  of  reproach. 

"Good  gracious,  i^Iisses  ]]rown,"  returned  the  Grinder,  "  I 
said  to  night's  a  week,  that  I'd  come  to  night,  didn't  I  ?  ^  And 
here  I  am.  How  you  do  go  on  !  I  wish  you'd  be  a  little  rational, 
Misses  Brown.  I'm  hoarse  with  saying  things  in  my  defence, 
and  my  very  face  is  shiny  with  being  hugged."  He  rubbed  it 
hard  with  his  sleeve,  as  if  to  remove  the  tender  polish  in  ques- 
tion. 

"  Drink  a  little  drop  to  comfort  you,  my  Robin,"  said  the 
old  woman,  filling  the  glass  from  the  bottle  and  giving  it  to 
him. 

"  Thank'ee,  Misses  Brown,"  returned  the  Grinder.  "  Here's 
your  health.  And  long  may  you — et  ceterer."  Which  to  judge 
from  the  expression  of"  his  face,  ditl  not  include  any  very  choice 
blessings.  "  And  here's  her  health,"  said  the  Grinder,  glan- 
cing at  Alice,  who  sat  with  her  eyes  fixed,  as  it  seemed  to  him, 
on  the  wall  behind  him,  but  in  reality  on  Mr.  Dombey's  face  at 
the  door, "  and  wishing  her  the  sa!>  '  and  many  of  'era  1 " 


5^^  l)0.\niEV  AXD  ^ON. 

He  drained  the  glass  to  these  two  sentiments,  and  set  it 
down. 

"  Well,  I  say,  Misses  Brown  !  "  he  proceeded.  "  To  go  on 
a  little  rational  now.  You're  a  judge  of  birds,  and  up  to  their 
ways,  as  I  know  to  my  cost." 

"  Cost  !  "  repeated  Mrs.  Brown. 

"  Satisfaction,  I  mean,"  returned  the  Grinder.  "  How  yon 
do  take  up  a  cove,  Misses  Brown  !  You've  put  it  all  out  of  my 
head  again." 

"  Judge  of  birds,  Robby,"  suggested  the  old  woman. 

"  Ah  !  "  said  the  Grinder.  "  Well,  I've  got  to  take  care  of 
this  pkirrot — certain  things  being  sold,  and  a  certain  establish- 
ment broke  up — and  as  I  don't  want  no  notice  took  at  pres- 
ent, I  wish  you'd  attend  to  her  for  a  week  or  so,  and  give  her 
board  and  lodging,  will  you  ?  If  I  must  come  backwards  and 
forv/ards,"  mused  the  Grinder  with  a  dejected  face,  *'  I  may  as 
well  have  something  to  come  for." 

**  Something  to  come  for  ?  "  screamed  the  old  woman. 

"Besides  you,  I  mean.  Misses  Brown,"  returned  the  craven 
Rob.  "  Not  that  1  want  any  inducement  but  yourself.  Misses* 
Brown,  I'm  sure.     Don't  begin  again,  for  goodness  sake." 

"  He  don't  care  for  me  !  He  don't  care  for  me,  as  I  care 
for  him  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Brown,  lifting  up  her  skinny  hands.  "  But 
I'll  take  care  of  his  bird." 

"  Take  good  care  of  it,  too,  you  know,  Mrs.  Brown,"  said 
Rob,  shaking  his  head.  "  If  you  were  so  much  as  to  stroke  its 
feathers  once  the  wrong  way,  I  believe  it  would  be  found  out." 

"Ah,  so  sharp  as  that,  Rob  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Brown,  quickly. 

"  Sharp,  Misses  Brown  !  "  repeated  Rob.  "  But  this  is  not 
to  be  talked  about," 

Checking  himself  abruptly,  and  not  without  a  fearful  glance 
across  the  room,  Rob  filled  the  glass  again,  and  having  slowly 
emptied  it,  shook  his  head,  and  began  to  draw  his  fingers 
across  and  across  the  wires  of  the  parrot's  cage  by  way  of  a 
diversion  from  the  dangerous  theme  that  had  just  been 
broached. 

The  old  woman  eyed  him  slyly,  and  hitching  her  chair 
nearer  his,  and  looking  in  at  the  parrot,  who  came  down  from 
the  gilded  dome  at  her  call,  said: 

"  Out  of  place  now,  Robby  }  " 

"Never _>'£>«  mind.  Misses  Brown,"  returned  the  Grindei^ 
shortly. 

"  Board  wages,  perhaps,  Rob  ? "  said  Mrs.  Brown, 

"  Pretty  Polly  !  "  said  the  Grinder. 


SECRE T  IXTEL L/UEA  CE.  695 

The  old  uoinau  ihutcd  a  glance  at  him  that  might  have 
warned  him  to  consider  his  ears  in  danger,  but  it  was  his  turn 
to  look  in  at  the  jjanot  now,  and  iiowever  expressive  his  imagi- 
nation may  have  made  her  angry  scowl,  it  was  unseen  by  his 
bodily  eyes. 

"  I  wonder  Master  didn't  take  you  with  him,  Rob,"  said  the 
old  woman,  in  an  wheedling  voice,  but  with  increased  malignity 
of  aspect. 

Rob  was  so  absorbed  in  contemplation  of  the  parrot,  and  in 
rolling  his  foretniger  on  the  wires  that  he  made  no  answer. 

The  old  woman  had  her  clutch  within  a  hair's-breadth  of 
his  shock  of  hair  as  it  stooped  over  the  table ;  but  she  re- 
strained her  fingers,  and  said,  in  a  voice  that  choked  with  its 
elTort  to  be  coaxing  : 

"  Robby,  my  child." 

"Well,  Misses  Brown,"  rejoined  the  Grinder. 

"  I  say  1  wonder  Master  didn't  take  you  with  him,  dear.** 

"  Never  jv/^  mind.  Misses  Brown,"  returned  the  Grinder. 

Mrs.  Brown  instantly  directed  the  clutch  of  her  right  hand 
at  his  hair,  and  the  clutch  of  her  left  hand  at  his  throat,  and 
held  on  to  the  object  of  her  fond  affection  with  such  extraor- 
dinary fury,  that  his  face  began  to  blacken  in  a  moment. 

"  Misses  Brown  !  "  exclaimed  the  Gringer,  "  let  go,  will 
you  !  What  are  you  doing  of  !  Help,  young  woman  !  Misses 
Brow — Brow —  !  " 

The  young  woman,  however,  equally  unmoved  by  his  direct 
appeal  to  her,  and  by  his  inarticulate  utterance,  remained  quite 
neutral,  until,  after  struggling  with  his  assailant  into  a  corner, 
Rob  disengaged  himself,  and  stood  there  panting  and  fenced 
in  by  his  own  elbows,  while  the  old  woman,  panting  too, 
and  stamping  with  rage  and  eagerness,  appeared  to  be  collect- 
ing her  energies  for  another  swoop  upon  him.  At  this  crisis 
^'Vlice  interposed  her  voice,  but  not  in  the  Grinder's  favor  by 
saying, 

"  Well  done.  Mother.     Tear  him  to  pieces  !  " 

"  What,  young  woman  !  "  blubbered  Rob  ;  "  are  you  against 
me  too  ?  \\hat  have  1  been  and  done  ?  What  am  I  to  be  tore 
to  pieces  for,  I  should  like  to  know  "i  Why  do  you  take  and  choke 
a  cove  who  has  never  done  you  any  harm,  neither  of  you  ?  Call 
yourself  females,  too ! "  said  the  frightened  and  afflicted 
Grinder,  with  his  coat-cufT  at  his  eye.  "  I'm  surprised  at  you  1 
Where's  your  feminine  tenderness  ?  " 

"  You  thankless  dog ! "  gasped  I^Irs.  Brown.  "  You  im- 
pudent insullin^  do^!" 


696  DOMBEY  AXD  SOX. 

"  What  have  I  been  and  done  to  go  and  give  you  offence, 
Misses  Brown  ?  "  retorted  the  tearful  Rob.  "  You  was  very 
much  attached  to  me  a  minute  ago." 

"  To  cut  me  off  with  his  short  answers  and  his  sulky  words," 
said  the  old  woman.  "  Me  !  Because  I  happen  to  be  curious 
to  have  a  little  l)it  of  gossip  about  Master  and  the  lady,  to  dare 
to  play  at  fast  and  loose  with  me  !  But  I'll  talk  to  you  no  more, 
my  lad.     Now  go  !  " 

"  I'm  sure  Misses  Brown,"  returned  the  abject  Grinder,  "  I 
never  insiniwatcd  that  I  wished  to  go.  Don't  talk  like  that. 
Misses  Brown,  if  you  please." 

"  I  won't  talk  at  all,"  said  Mrs.  Brown,  with  an  action  of 
her  crooked  fingers  that  made  him  shrink  into  half  his  natural 
compass  in  the  corner.  "  Not  another  word  with  him  shall 
pass  my  lips.  He's  an  ungrateful  hound.  I  cast  him  off.  Now 
let  him  go !  And  I'll  slip  those  after  him  that  shall  talk  too 
much  ;  that  won't  be  shook  away  ;  that'll  hang  to  him  like 
leeches,  and  slink  artcr  him  like  foxes,  ^^^lat  !  He  knows 
'em.  He  knows  his  old  games  and  his  old  ways.  If  he's  for- 
gotten 'em,  they'll  soon  remind  him.  Now  let  him  go,  and  see 
how  he'll  do  Master's  business,  and  keep  Master's  secrets,  ^vith 
such  company  always  following  him  up  and  down.  Ha,  ha,  ha  ! 
He'll  find  'em  a  different  sort  from  you  and  me,  Ally  ;  close  as 
he  is  with  you  and  me.     Now  let  him  go,  now  let  him  go  !  " 

The  old  woman,  to  the  unspeakable  dismay  of  the  Grinder, 
walked  her  twisted  figure  round  and  round,  in  a  ring  of  some 
four  feet  in  diameter,  constantly  repeating  these  words,  and 
shaking  her  fist  above  her  head,  and  working  her  mouth  about. 

"  Misses  Brown,"  pleaded  Rob,  coming  a  little  out  of  his 
corner,  "  I'm  sure  you  wouldn't  injure  a  cove,  on  second 
thoughts,  and  in  cold  blood,  would  you  }  " 

"  Don't  talk  to  me,"  said  Mrs.  Brown,  still  wrathfully  pur- 
suing her  circle.     *'  Now  let  him  go,  now  let  him  go  !  " 

"  Misses  Brown,"  urged  the  tormented  Grinder,  "  I  didn't 
mean  to — oh,  what  a  thing  it  is  for  a  cove  to  get  into  such  a 
line  as  this! — I  was  only  careful  of  talking,  Misses  Brown, 
because  I  always  am,  on  account  of  his  being  up  to  everything, 
but  I  might  have  known  it  wouldn't  have  gone  any  further. 
I'm  sure  I'm  quite  agreeal)le,"  with  a  wretched  face,  "for  any 
little  bit  of  gossip,  Misses  Brown.  Don't  go  on  like  this,  if  you 
please.  Oh,  couldn't  you  have  the  goodness  to  put  in  a  word 
for  a  miserable  cove,  here  !  "  said  the  Grinder,  appealing  in 
desperation  to  the  daughter. 

"ComCj  mother,  you  hear  what  he  says,"  she  interposed,  in 


SECf:ET  INTEL!. ICF.NCE.  ^,95 

her  stern  ^'oice,  and  with  an  impatient  action  of  iier  head  ;  "try 
him  once  more,  and  if  you  fall  out  with  him  again,  ruin  him,  if 
you  like,  and  have  done  with  him." 

Mrs.  Brown,  moved  as  it  seemed  by  this  very  tender  exhor- 
tation, presently  began  to  howl  ;  and  softening  by  tlegrees, 
took  the  apologetic  Grinder  to  her  arms,  who  embraced  her 
with  a  face  of  unutterable  woe,  and  like  a  victim  as  he  was, 
resumeil  his  former  seat,  close  by  the  side  of  his  venerable 
iriend,  whom  he  suffered,  not  without  much  constrained  sweet- 
ness of  countenance,  combating  very  expressive  physiognomical 
revelations  of  an  opposite  character,  to  draw  his  arm  through 
hers,  and  keep  it  there. 

"  And  how's  Master,  deary  dear  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Brown,  when, 
sitting  in  this  amicable  posture,  they  had  pledged  each  other. 

"  Hush  !  If  you'd  be  so  good.  Misses  Brown,  as  to  speak 
a  little  lower,"  Rob  implored.  "Why,  he's  pretty  well, 
thank'ee,  I  suppose." 

"  You're  not  out  of  place,  Robby  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Brown  in  a 
wheeding  tone. 

"Why,  I'm  not  exactly  out  of  place,  nor  in,"  faltered  Rob. 
"  I — I'm  still  in  pay,  Misses  Brown." 

"  And  nothing  to  do,  Rob  ?  " 

"  Nothing  particular  to  do  just  now,  Misses  Brown,  but  to 
— keep  my  eyes  open,"  said  the  Grinder,  rolling  them  in  a  for- 
lorn way. 

"  Master  abroad,  Rob  ?  " 

"  Oh,  for  goodness  sake.  Misses  Brown,  couldn't  you  gossip 
with  a  cove  about  any  thing  else  !  "  cried  the  Grinder,  in  a 
burst  of  despair. 

The  impetuous  Mrs.  Brown  rising  directly,  the  tortured 
Grinder  detained  her,  stammering  "  Ye-es,  Misses  Brown,  I 
believe  he's  abroad.  What's  she  staring  at  ?  "  he  added,  in  al- 
lusion to  the  daughter,  whose  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  face 
that  now  again  looked  out  behind  him. 

"Don't" mind  her,  lad,"  said  the  old  woman,  holding  him 
closer  to  prevent  his  turning  round.  "  It's  her  way — her  way. 
Tell  mc,  Rob.     Did  you  ever  sec  the  lady,  deary  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Misses  Brown,  what  lady?  "cried  the  Grinder  in  a 
tone  of  piteous  supplication. 

"  What  lady  ?  "  she  retorted.     "  The  lady  ;  Mrs.  Dombey." 

"  Yes,  I  believe  I  see  her  once,"  replied  Rob. 

"The  night  she  went  away,  Robby,  eh?"  said  the  old 
woman  in  his  ear,  and  taking  note  of  every  change  in  his  face, 
**  Aha  !     I  know  it  was  that  nig;ht." 


C9S  J)0M1)EV  AXD  A-O.r. 

"  Well,  if  you  know  it  was  that  night,  you  know,  Misses 
Brown,"  replied  Rob,  "  it's  no  use  putting  pinchers  into  a  cove 
to  make  him  say  so." 

"  Where  did  they  go  that  night,  Rob  ?  Straight  away  ? 
How  did  they  go  ?  Where  did  you  see  her  ?  Did  she  laugh  ? 
Did  she  cry  ?  Tell  me  all  about  it,"  cried  the  old  hag,  holding 
him  closer  yet,  patting  the  hand  that  was  drawn  through  his 
arm  against  her  other  hand,  and  searching  every  line  in  his 
face  with  her  bleared  eyes.  "  Come  !  Begin  !  I  want  to  be 
told  all  about  it.  What,  Rob,  boy  !  You  and  me  can  keep  a 
secret  together,  eh  ?  We've  done  so  before  now.  Where  did 
they  go  first,  Rob  ?  " 

The  wretched  Grinder  made  a  gasp,  and  a  pause. 

"  Are  you  dumb  ?  "  said  the  old  woman,  angrily. 

"  Lord,  Misses  Brown,  no  !  You  expect  a  cove  to  be  a 
flash  of  lightning.  I  wish  I  was  the  electric  fluency,"  muttered 
the  bewildered  Grinder.  "  I'd  have  a  shock  at  somebody,  that 
would  settle  their  business." 

"  What  do  you  say  ?  "  asked  the  old  woman,  with  a  grin. 

"  I'm  wishing  my  love  to  you.  Misses  Brown,"  returned  the 
false  Rob,  seeking  consolation  in  the  glass.  "  Where  did  they 
go  to  first,  was  it !     Him  and  her  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Ah  !  "  said  the  old  woman,  eagerly.     "  Them  two." 

"  Why,  they  didn't  go  nowhere — not  together,  I  mean," 
answered  Rob. 

The  old  woman  looked  at  him,  as  though  she  had  a  strong 
impulse  upon  her  to  make  another  clutch  at  his  head  and 
throat,  but  was  restrained  by  a  certain  dogged  mystery  in  his 
face. 

"That  was  the  art  of  it,"  said  the  reluctant  Grinder ;  "  that's 
the  way  nobody  saw  'em  go,  or  has  been  able  to  say  how  they 
did  go.     They  went  difi'erent  ways,  I  tell  you.  Misses  lirown.' 

"  Ay,  ay,  ay  !  To  meet  at  an  appointed  place,"  chuckled 
the  old  woman,  after  a  moment's  silent  and  keen  scrutiny  of 
his  face. 

"  Why,  if  they  weren't  a  going  to  meet  somewhere,  I  sup- 
pose they  might  as  well  have  stayed  at  home,  mightn't  they, 
Misses  Brown  ?  "  returned  the  unwilling  Grinder. 

"  Well,  Rob  ?  Well  ?  "  said  the  old  woman,  drawing  his 
arm  yet  tighter  through  her  own,  as  if,  in  her  eagerness,  she 
were  afraid  of  his  slipping  away. 

"  What,  haven't  we  talked  enough  yet,  Misses  Brown  >  " 
returned  the  Grinder,  who,  between  his  sense  of  injury,  hn 
sense  of  liquor,  and  his  sense  of  being  on  the  rack,  had  become 


Jf'Ck/-:  T  AV tELl.  tCRK'CR.  699 

SO  lachrymose,  th:U  at  almost  every  answer  he  scooped  his 
coatcuff  into  one  or  other  of  his  eyes,  and  uttered  an  unavail- 
ing  whine  of  remonstrance.  "  Did  she  laupjh  that  night,  was 
it  ?     Didn't  you  ask  if  she  hxu^died,  Misses  Brown  ?  " 

"  Or  cried  ?  "  added  the  old  woman,  nodding  assent. 

"  Neither,"  said  the  Grinder.  "  She  kept  as  steady  when 
she  and  me — oh,  I  see  you  7C'Ul  have  it  out  of  me.  Misses 
Brown  !  l!ut  take  your  solemn  oath  now,  that  you'll  never  tell 
anybodv." 

This  Mrs.  Jirown  very  readily  did  :  being  naturally  Jesuiti- 
cal ;  and  having  no  other  intention  in  the  matter  than  that  her 
concealed  visitor  should  hear  for  himself. 

"  She  kept  as  steady,  then,  when  she  and  me  went  down  to 
Southampton,"  said  the  Grinder,  "  as  a  image.  In  the  morn- 
ing she  was  just  the  same.  Misses  lirown.  And  when  she  went 
a\vl\y  in  the  packet  before  daylight,  by  herself— me  pretending 
to  be  her  servant,  and  seeing  her  safe  aboard — she  was  just 
the  same.     Now,  are  you  contented,  Mrs.  Brown  ?  " 

"  No,  Rob.     Not  yet,"  answered  Mrs.  Brown,  decisively. 

"  Oh,  here's  a  woman  for  you  !  "  cried  the  unfortunate  Rob, 
in  an  outburst  of  feeble  lamentation  over  his  own  helplessness. 
"  VViiat  did  you  wish  to  know  next,  Misses  Ikown  ?  " 

"What  became  of  Master  ?  Where  did  he  go?"  she  in- 
quired, still  holding  him  tight,  and  looking  close  into  his  face 
with  her  sharp  eyes. 

"  Upon  my  soul,  I  don't  know.  Misses  Brown,"  answered 
Rob.  "  Upon  my  soul  I  don't  know  what  he  did,  nor  where 
he  went,  nor  anything  about  him.  I  only  know  what  he  said 
to  me  as  a  caution  to  hold  my  tongue,  when  we  parted  ;  and  I 
tell  you  this,  Mrs.  Brown,  as  a  friend,  that  sooner  than  ever 
repeat  a  word  of  what  we're  saying  now,  you  had  better  take 
and  shoot  yourself,  or  shut  yourself  up  in  this  house,  and  set  it 
a-firc,  for  there's  nothing  he  wouldn't  do,  to  be  revenged  upon 
you.  You  don't  know  him  half  as  well  as  1  do,  Misses  Bro\m. 
You're  never  safe  from  him,  1  tell  you." 

"  Haven't  I  taken  an  oath,"  retorted  the  old  woman,  "  and 
won't  I  keep  it  ?  " 

"  Well,  I'm  sure  I  hope  you  will.  Misses  Brown,"  returned 
Rob,  somewhat  doubtfully,  and  not  without  a  latent  threatening 
in  his  manner.  *'  For  your  own  sake  quite  as  much  as  mine." 
He  looked  at  her  as  he  gave  her  this  friendly  caution,  and 
emphasized  it  with  a  nodding  of  his  head  ;  but  finding  it  un- 
comfortable to  encounter  the  ye'.low  face  with  its  grotesque 
action,  and  the  ferret  eyes  with'  their  keen  old  wintry  gaze,  so 


>j66  bOMBKY  AXD  soy. 

close  to  his  own,  he  looked  down  uneasily  and  sat  shuffling  in 
his  chair,  as  if  he  were  trying  to  brinj;  himself  to  a  sullen  dec- 
laration that  he  would  answer  no  more  questions.  The  old 
woman  still  holding  him  as  before,  took  this  opportunity  of 
raising  the  forefniger  of  her  right  hand,  in  the  air,  as  a  stealthy 
signal  to  the  concealed  observer  to  give  particular  attention  to 
what  was  about  to  follow. 

"  Rob,"  she  said,  in  her  most  coaxing  tone. 

"  Good  gracious,  Misses  Brown,  what's  the  matter  now  ?  " 
returned  the  exasperated  Grinder. 

"  Rob  !  where  did  the  lady  and  Master  appoint  to  meet  ? " 

Rob  shuffled  more  and  more,  and  looked  up  and  looked 
down,  and  bit  his  thumb,  and  dried  it  on  his  waistcoat,  and 
finally  said,  eyeing  his  tormentor  askant,  "  How  should  /know, 
Misses  Brown  ?  " 

The  old  woman  held  up  her  finger  again,  as  before,  and  re- 
plying, "  Come,  lad  !  It's  no  use  leading  me  to  that,  and  there 
leaving  me.     I  want  to  know  " — waited  for  his  answer. 

Rob,  after  a  discomfited  pause,  suddenly  broke  out  with, 
"  How  can  I  pronounce  the  names  of  foreign  places,  Mrs. 
Brown  ?     What  an  unreasonable  woman  you  are  !  " 

"  But  you  have  heard  it  said,  Robby,"  she  retorted  firmly, 
"  and  you  know  what  it  sounded  like.     Come !  " 

"  I  never  heard  it  said,  Misses  Brown,"  returned  the 
Grinder. 

"Then,"  retorted  the  old  woman  quickly,  "you  have  seen 
it  written,  and  you  can  spell  it." 

Rob,  with  a  petulant  exclamation  between  laughing  and 
crying — for  he  was  penetrated  with  some  admiration  of  Mrs. 
Brown's  cunning,  even  through  this  persecution — after  some 
reluctant  fumbling  in  his  waistcoat  pocket,  produced  from  it  a 
little  piece  of  chalk.  The  old  woman's  eyes  sparkled  when  she 
saw  it  between  his  thumb  and  finger,  and  hastily  clearing  a 
space  on  the  deal  table,  that  he  might  write  the  word  there, 
she  once  more  made  her  signal  with  a  shaking  hand. 

"  Now  I  tell  you  beforehand  what  it  is,  Misses  Brown," 
said  Rob,  "it's  no  use  asking  me  anything  else.  I  won't  an- 
swer anything  else ;  I  can't.  How  long  it  was  to  be  before 
tlicy  met,  or  whose  plan  it  was  that  they  was  to  go  away  alone, 
1  don't  know  no  more  than  you  do.  I  don't  know  no  more 
about  it.  If  I  was  to  tell  you  how  1  found  out  this  word,  you'd 
believe  that.  Shall  I  tell  you,  Misses  Brown  ?  " 
I       "Yes,  Rob," 

"Well  then  Misses  Brown.     The  wav — now  vou  won't  ask 


SECRET  IXTELL/CEXCE.  yoi 

any  more,  you  know  ?  "  said  Rob,  turning  his  eyes,  which  were 
now  fast  getting  drowsy  and  stupid,  upon  her. 

"  Not  anotlier  word,"  said  Mrs.  Iirown. 

"  Well  tlien,  the  way  was  tliis.  When  a  certain  person  lefl 
the  lady  witli  me  he  put  a  piece  of  paper  willi  a  direction  wril- 
jten  on  it  in  tlie  hidy's  hand,  saying  it  was  in  case  she  should 
'forget.  She  wasn't  afraid  of  forgetting,  for  she  tore  it  up  as 
soon  as  his  back  was  turned,  and  when  I  put  up  the  carriage 
steps,  I  shook  out  one  of  the  pieces — she  sprinkled  the  rest 
out  of  the  window,  I  suppose,  for  there  was  none  there  after- 
wards, though  I  looked  for  'em.  There  was  only  one  word  on 
it,  and  that  was  tiiis,  if  you  must  and  will  know.  But  remem.' 
ber !     You're  upon  your  oath,  Misses  Brown  !  " 

Mrs.  Brown  knew  that,  she  said.  Rob,  having  nothing 
more  to  say,  began  to  chalk,  slowly  and  laboriously,  on  the 
table. 

"  'D,'  "  the  old  woman  read  aloud,  when  he  had  formed  the 
letter. 

"  Will  you  hold  your  tongue,  Misses  Brown  ? "  he  ex- 
claimed, covering  it  with  his  hand,  and  turning  impatiently 
upon  her,  "  I  won't  have  it  read  out.     Be  quiet,  will  you !  " 

"  Then  write  large,  Rob,"  she  returned,  repeating  her  secret 
signal ;  "  for  my  eyes  are  not  good,  even  at  print." 

Muttering  to  himself,  and  returning  to  his  work  with  an  ill 
will,  Rob  went  on  with  the  word.  As  he  bent  his  head  down, 
the  person  for  whose  information  he  so  unconsciously  labored, 
moved  from  the  door  behind  him  to  within  a  short  stride  of  his 
shoulder,  and  looked  eagerly  towards  the  creeping  track  of  his 
hand  upon  the  table.  At  the  same  time,  Alice,  from  her  op 
posite  chair,  watched  it  narrowly  as  it  shaped  the  letters,  and 
repeated  each  one  on  her  lips  as  he  made  it,  without  articulat- 
ing it  aloud.  At  the  Qwd  of  every  letter  her  eyes  and  Mi. 
Dombey's  met,  as  if  each  of  them  sought  to  be  confirmed  by 
'the  other  ;  and  thus  they  both  spelt  I).  1.  J.  O.  N. 

"There  1  "  said  the  (Grinder,  moistening  the  palm  of  his 
hand  hastily,  to  obliterate  the  word  :  and  not  content  with 
smearing  it  out,  rubbing  and  planing  all  track  of  it  away  with 
his  coat  slce\e,  until  the  very  color  of  the  chalk  was  gone  from 
the  table.     "  Now,  I  hope  you're  conlented.  Misses  Brown  !  " 

The  old  woman,  in  token  of  her  being  so,  released  his  arm 
and  patted  his  back  ;  and  the  Grinder,  overcome  with  mortifi- 
cation, cross-examination  and  liquor,  folded  his  arms  on  the 
table,  laid  his  head  upon  them,  and  fell  asleep. 

Not  until  he  had  been  heavily  asleep  some  time,  and  wat- 


702  DOMDEY  AXD  SOX. 

snoring  roundly,  did  the  old  woman  turn  towards  the  door, 
where  Mr.  Dombey  stood  concealed,  and  beckon  him  to  come 
through  the  room,  and  pass  out.  Even  then,  she  hovered  over 
Rob,  ready  to  blind  him  with  her  hands,  or  strike  his  head 
down,  if  he  should  raise  it  while  the  secret  step  was  crossing 
to  the  door.  But  though  her  glance  took  sharp  cognizance  of 
the  sleeper,  it  was  sharp  too  for  the  waking  man,  and  when  he 
touched  her  hand  with  his,  and  in  spite  of  all  his  caution,  made 
a  chinking,  golden  sound,  it  was  as  bright  and  greedy  as  a 
raven's. 

The  daughter's  dark  gaze  followed  him  to  the  door,  and 
noted  well  how  pale  he  was  and  how  his  hurried  tread  indi- 
cated that  the  least  delay  was  an  insupportable  restraint  upon 
him,  and  how  he  was  burning  to  be  active  and  away.  As  he 
closed  the  door  behind  him,  she  looked  round  at  her  mother. 
The  old  woman  trotted  to  her,  opened  her  hand  to  show  what 
was  within  ;  and,  tightly  closing  it  again  in  her  jealousy  and 
avarice,  whispered  : 

"  What  will  he  do,  Ally  ?  " 

•'  Mischief,"  said  the  daughter. 

"  Murder  ? "  asked  the  old  woman. 

"  He's  a  madman,  in  his  wounded  pride,  and  may  do  that, 
for  anything  we  can  say,  or  he  either." 

Her  glance  was  brighter  than  her  mother's  and  the  fire 
that  shone  in  it  was  fiercer  ;  but  her  face  was  colorless,  even 
to  her  lips. 

They  said  no  more,  but  sat  apart ;  the  mother  communing 
with  her  money ;  the  daughter  with  her  thoughts  ;  the  glance 
of  each,  shining  in  the  gloom  of  the  feebly  lighted  room.  Rob 
slept  and  snored.  The  disregarded  parrot  only  was  in  action. 
It  twisted  and  pulled  at  the  wires  of  its  cage,  with  its  crooked 
peak,  and  crawled  up  to  the  dome,  and  along  its  roof  like  a 
fly,  and  down  again  head  foremost,  and  shook,  and  bit,  and 
rattled  at  every  slender  bar,  as  if  it  knew  its  master's  danger, 
and  was  wild  to  force  a  passage  out,  and  fly  away  to  warn  him 
of  it. 


MORE  IXTELUGENCE.  703 

CHAPTER  LIII. 

MORE     INTELLIGENCE. 

There  wc-ro  two  of  the  traitor's  own  blood — his  renounced 
brother  and  sister — on  whom  llie  wei^dit  of  his  guilt  rested 
almost  more  heavily,  at  this  time,  than  on  the  man  whom  he 
had  so  deeply  injured.  Prying  and  tormenting  as  the  world 
was,  it  did  Mr.  Dombey  the  service  of  nerving  him  to  pursuit 
and  revenge.  It  roused  his  passion,  stung  his  pride,  twisted 
the  one  idea  of  his  life  into  a  new  shape,  and  made  some  grati- 
fication of  his  wrath,  the  object  into  which  his  whole  intellectual 
existence  resolved  itself.  All  the  stubbornness  and  implacability 
of  his  nature,  all  its  hard  impenetrable  quality,  all  its  gloom 
and  moroseness,  all  its  exaggerated  sense  of  personal  import- 
ance, all  its  jealous  disposition  to  resent  the  least  flaw  in  the 
ample  recognition  of  his  importance  by  others,  set  this  way 
like  many  streams  united  into  one,  and  bore  him  on  upon  their 
tide.  The  most  impetuously  passionate  and  violently  impulsive 
of  mankind  would  have  been  a  milder  enemy  to  encounter  than 
the  sullen  Mr.  Dombey  wrought  to  this.  A  wild  beast  would 
have  been  easier  turned  or  soothed  than  the  grave  gentleman 
without  a  wrinkle  in  his  starched  cravat. 

But  the  very  intensity  of  his  purpose  became  almost  a  sub- 
stitute for  action  in  it.  While  he  was  yet  uninformed  of  the 
traitor's  retreat,  it  served  to  divert  his  mind  from  his  own  ca- 
lamity, and  to  entertain  it  with  another  prospect.  The  brother 
and  sister  of  his  false  favorite  had  no  such  relief  ;  everything 
in  their  history,  past  and  present,  gave  his  delinquency  a  more 
afflicting  meaning  to  them. 

The  sister  may  have  sometimes  sadly  thought  that  if  she 
had  remained  with  him,  the  companion  and  friend  she  had 
been  once,  he  might  have  escaped  the  crime  into  which  he  had 
fallen.  If  she  ever  thought  so,  it  was  still  without  regret  for 
what  she  had  done,  without  the  least  doubt  of  her  duty,  without 
any  pricing  or  enhancing  of  her  self-devotion.  But  when  this 
possibility  presented  itself  to  the  erring  and  repentant  brother, 
as  it  sometimes  did,  it  smote  upon  his  heart  with  such  a  keen, 
reproachful  touch  as  he  could  hardly  bear.  No  idea  of  retort 
upon  his  cruel  brother  came  into  his  mind.  New  accusation  of 
himself,  fresh  inward  lamentings  over  liis  own  unworthincss, 


^04  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

and  the  ruin  in  which  it  was  at  once  his  consolation  and  his 
self-reproach  that  he  did  not  stand  alone,  were  the  sole  kind  of 
reflections  to  which  the  discovery  gave  rise  in  him. 

It  was  on  the  very  same  day  whose  evening  set  upon  the 
last  chapter,  and  when  Mr.  Dombey's  world  was  busiest  with 
the  elopement  of  his  wife,  that  the  window  of  the  room  in  which 
the  brother  and  sister  sat  at  their  early  breakfast,  was  darkened 
by  the  unexpected  shadow  of  a  man  coming  to  the  little  porch  : 
which  man  was  Perch  the  Messenger. 

"I've  stepped  over  from  Ball's  Pond  at  an  early  hour,"  said 
Mr.  Perch,  confidentially  looking  in  at  the  room  door,  and 
stopping  on  the  mat  to  wipe  his  shoes  all  round,  which  had  no 
mud  upon  them,  "  agreeable  to  my  instructions  last  night. 
They  was  t6  be  sure  and  bring  a  note  to  you,  Mr.  Carker, 
before  you  went  out  in  the  morning.  I  should  have  been  here 
a  good  hour  and  a  half  ago,"  said  Mr.  Perch,  meekly,  "but  for 
the  state  of  health  of  Mrs.  P.,  who  I  thought  I  should  have 
lost  in  the  night,  I  do  assure  you,  five  distinct  times." 

"  Is  your  wife  so  ill  ?  "  asked  Harriet. 

"  Why,  you  see,"  said  Mr.  Perch,  first  turning  round  to 
shut  the  door  carefully,  "  she  takes  what  has  happened  in  our 
House  so  much  to  heart.  Miss.  Her  nerves  is  so  very  delicate 
you  see,  and  soon  unstrung.  Not  but  what  the  strongest  ners'es 
had  good  need  to  be  shook,  I'm  sure.  You  feel  it  very  much 
yourself,  no  doubts." 

Harriet  repressed  a  sigh,  and  glanced  at  her  brother. 

"  I'm  sure  I  feel  it  myself,  in  my  humble  way,"  Mr,  Perch 
went  on  to  say,  with  a  shake  of  his  head,  in  a  manner  I 
couldn't  have  believed  if  I  hadn't  been  called  upon  to  undergo. 
It  has  almost  the  effect  of  drink  upon  me.  I  literally  feels 
every  morning  as  if  I  had  been  taking  more  than  was  good  for 
me  over-night." 

Mr.  Perch's  appearance  corroborated  his  recital  of  his 
symptoms.  There  was  an  air  of  feverish  lassitude  about  it, 
that  seemed  referable  to  drams  ;  and  which,  in  fact,  might  no 
doubt  have  been  traced  to  those  numerous  discoveries  of  him- 
self in  the  bars  of  public-houses,  being  treated  and  questioned, 
which  he  was  in  the  daily  habit  of  making. 

"Therefore  I  can  judge,"  said  Mr.  Perch,  shaking  his  head 
again,  and  speaking  in  a  silvery  murmur,  "  of  the  feelings  of 
such  as  is  at  all  peculiarly  sitiwated  in  this  most  painful  rewela- 
tion." 

Here  Mr.  Perch  waited  to  be  confided  in  ;  and  receiving 
jio  confidence,  coughed  behind  h:'s  hand.      This  leading  to 


MORE  IMKLl.lCKA'CE.  .^05 

ttothinj;  he  coughed  behind  his  hat ;  and  that  leading  to  nothing, 
he  put  his  hat  on  the  ground  and  sought  in  his  breast  pocket 
for  the  letter. 

"  If  I  rightly  recollect,  there  was  no  answer,"  said  Mr.  Perch, 
with  an  affable  smile  ;  "  but  perhaps  you'll  be  so  good  as  cast 
your  eye  over  it,  Sir." 

John  Carker  broke  the  seal,  which  was  Mr.  Dombey's,  and 
possessing  himself  of  the  contents,  which  were  very  brief,  re- 
plied, "  No.     No  answer  is  expected." 

"Then  I  shall  wish  you  good-morning.  Miss,"  said  Perch, 
taking  a  step  toward  the  door,  "and  hoping,  I'm  sure,  that 
you'lfnot  permit  yourself  to  be  more  reduced  in  mind  than  you 
can  help  by  the  late  painful  rewelation.  The  Papers,"  said 
Mr.  Perch,  taking  two  steps  back  again,  and  comprehensively 
addressing  both  the  brother  and  sister  in  a  whisper  of  increased 
mystery,  "  is  more  eager  for  news  of  it  then  you'd  suppo.se  pos- 
sible. One  of  the  Sunday  ones,  in  a  blue  cloak  and  a  white  hat, 
that  had  previously  offered  for  to  bribe  me — need  I  .say  with 
what  success  ? — was  dodging  about  our  court  last  night  as  late 
as  twenty  minutes  after  eight  o'clock.  I  see  him  myself,  with 
his  eye  at  the  counting-house  keyhole,  which  being  patent  is 
impervious.  Another  one,"  said  Mr.  Perch,  "  with  milintary 
frogs,  is  in  the  parlor  of  the  King's  Arms  all  the  blessed  day. 
I  happened,  last  week,  to  let  a  little  obserwation  fall  there, 
and  next  morning,  which  was  Sunday,  I  see  it  worked  up  in 
print,  in  a  most  surprising  manner." 

Mr.  Perch  resorted  to  his  breast  pocket,  as  if  to  produce 
the  paragraph,  but  receiving  no  encouragement,  pulled  out  his 
beaver  gloves,  picked  up  his  hat,  and  took  his  leave  ;  and  be- 
fore it  was  high  noon,  Mr,  Perch  had  related  to  several  select 
audiences  at  the  King's  Arms  and  elsewhere,  how  Miss  Carker, 
bursting  into  tears,  had  caught  him  by  both  hands,  and  said, 
"  Oh  !  dear  dear  Perch,  the  sight  of  you  is  all  the  comfort  I 
have  left!"  and  how  Mr.  John  Carker  had  said,  in  an  awful 
voice,  "  Perch,  I  disown  him.  Never  let  me  hear  him  men- 
tioned as  a  brother  more  !  " 

"  Dear  John,"  said  Harriet,  when  they  were  left  alone,  and 
had  rem.iined  silent  for  some  few  moments.  "There  are  bad 
tidings  in  that  letter." 

"  Ves.      But  nothing  unexpected,"  he  replied.     "  I  saw  the 
writer  yesterday." 
"  The  writer  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Dombey.  He  passed  twice  through  the  counting- 
house  while  I  was  there.     1  had  been  able  to  avoid  him  before, 


yo6  DOMBEY  AX  J)  SO.V. 

but  of  course  could  not  hope  to  do  that  long.  I  know  ho\» 
natural  it  was  that  he  should  regard  my  presence  as  something 
offensive  ;  I  felt  it  must  be  so,  myself." 

"  He  did  not  say  so  ?  " 

"  No  ;  he  said  nothing :  but  I  saw  that  his  glance  rested  on 
me  for  a  moment,  and  1  was  prepared  for  what  would  happen 
— for  what  has  happened.     I  am  dismissed  !  " 

She  looked  as  little  shocked  and  as  hopeful  as  she  could, 
but  it  was  distressing  news,  for  many  reasons. 

'"I  need  not  tell  you,'"  said  John  Carker,  reading  the 
letter,  " '  why  your  name  would  henceforth  have  an  unnatural 
sound,  in  however  remote  a  connection  with  mine,  or  why  the 
daily  sight  of  any  one  who  bears  it,  would  be  unendurable  to 
me.  I  have  to  notify  the  cessation  of  all  engagements  between 
us,  from  this  date,  and  to  request  that  no  renewal  of  any  com- 
munication with  me,  or  my  establishment,  be  ever  attempted  by 
you.' — Enclosed  is  an  equivalent  in  money  to  a  generously  long 
notice,  and  this  is  my  discharge.  Meaven  knows,  Harriet,  it  is 
a  lenient  and  considerate  one,  when  we  remember  all !  " 

"  If  it  be  lenient  and  considerate  to  punish  you  at  all,  John, 
for  the  misdeed  of  another,"  she  replied  gently,  "  yes." 

"We  have  been  an  ill-omened  race  to  him,"  said  John 
Carker.  "  He  has  reason  to  shrink  from  the  sound  of  our  name, 
and  to  think  that  there  is  something  cursed  and  wicked  in  our 
blood.     I  should  almost  think  it  too,  Harrie!,  but  for  you." 

"  Brother,  don't  speak  like  this.  If  you  have  any  special 
reason,  as  you  say  you  have,  and  think  you  have — though  I 
say.  No  ! — to  love  me,  spare  me  the  hearing  of  such  wild  mad 
words  ! " 

He  co\ered  his  face  with  both  his  hands  :  but  soon  per- 
mitted her,  coming  near  him,  to  take  one  in  her  own. 

"  After  so  many  years,  this  parting  is  a  melancholy  thing,  I 
know,"  said  his  sister,  "  and  the  cause  of  it  is  dreadful  to  us 
both.  We  have  to  live,  too,  and  must  look  about  us  for  the 
means.  Well,  well!  We  can  do  so,  undismayed.  It  is  our 
pride,  not  our  trouble,  to  strive,  John,  and  to  strive  together!  " 

A  smile  played  on  her  lips,  as  she  kissed  his  cheek,  and  en- 
treated him  to  be  of  good  cheer. 

"  Oh,  dearest  sister !  Tied,  of  your  own  noble  will,  to  a 
ruined  man  !  whose  reputation  is  blighted  ;  who  has  no  friend 
himself,  and  has  driven  every  friend  of  yours  away  !  " 

"Jolm!"  she  laid  her  hand  lustily'upon  his  lips,  "for  my 
sake!  In  remembrance  of  our  long  companionship!"  He 
was  silent.     "Now  .et  me  tell  )ou,  dear,"  quietly  silling  by  his 


MORE  INTELLIGENCE. 


101 


side,  "  I  have,  as  you  have,  expected  this  ;  and  when  I  have 
been  thinking  of  it,  and  fearing  that  it  would  happen,  and  pre- 
paring myself  for  it  as  well  as  I  could,  I  have  resolved  to  tell 
you,  if  it  should  be  so,  that  I  have  kept  a  secret  from  you,  and 
that  we  //</rr  a  friend." 

"  Wliat's  our  friend's  name,  Harriet  ?"  he  answered  with  a 
sorrowful  smile. 

"  Indeed,  I  don't  know,  but  he  once  made  a  very  earnest 
protestation  to  me  of  his  friendship  and  his  wish  to  serve  us  : 
and  to  this  day  I  believe  him." 

"  Harriet !  "  exclaimed  her  wonderful  brother,  "  where  does 
this  friend  live  ?  " 

"  Neither  do  I  know  that,"  she  returned.  "  But  he  knows 
us  both,  and  our  history — all  our  little  history,  John.  That  is 
the  reason  why,  at  his  own  suggestion,  I  have  kept  the  secret 
of  his  coming  here,  from  you,  lest  his  acquaintance  with  it 
should  distress  you." 

"  Here  !     Has  he  been  here,  Harriet  ?  " 

"Here,  in  this  room.     Once." 

"  What  kind  of  a  man  ?  " 

"Not  young.  'Gray-headed,' as  he  said,  '  and  fast  grow- 
ing grayer.'     But  generous,  and  frank,  and  good,  I  am  sure." 

"  And  only  seen  once,  Harriet  1 " 

"  In  this  room  only  once,"  said  his  sister,  with  the  slightest 
and  most  transient  glow  upon  her  cheeks  ;  "  but  when  here,  he 
entreated  me  to  suffer  him  to  see  me  once  a  week  as  he  passed 
by,  in  token  of  our  being  well,  and  continuing  to  need  nothing 
at  his  hands.  For,  I  told  him,  when  he  proffered  us  any  serv- 
ice he  could  render — which  was  the  object  of  his  visit — that 
we  needed  nothing." 

"  And  once  a  week " 

"Once  every  week  since  then,  and  always  on  the  same  day, 
and  at  the  same  hour,  he  has  gone  past ;  always  on  foot ;  al- 
ways going  in  the  same  direction — towards  London  ;  and  never 
pausing  longer  than  to  bow  to  me,  and  wave  his  hand  cheer- 
fully, as  a  kind  guardian  might.  He  made  that  promise  when 
he  proposed  these  curious  interviews,  and  has  kept  it  so 
faithfully  and  pleasantly,  that  if  I  ever  felt  any  trilling  un- 
easiness about  them  in  the  beginning  (which  I  don't  think  I 
did,  John ;  his  manner  was  so  plain  and  true)  it  very  soon 
vanished,  and  left  me  quite  glad  when  the  day  was  coming. 
Last  Monday — the  first  since  this  terrible  event — he  did  not 
goby;  and  I  have  wondered  whether  his  absence  can  have 
been  in  any  way  connected  with  what  has  happened." 


7 o8  1)0MPE  Y  A XD  SOAT. 

"  How  ?  "  inquired  her  brother, 

"  I  don't  know  how.  I  have  only  speculated  on  the  coin- 
cidence ;  I  have  not  tried  to  account  for  it,  I  feel  sure  he  will 
return.  When  he  does,  dear  John,  let  me  tell  him  that  I  have 
at  last  si^okcn  to  you,  and  let  me  bring  you  together.  He  will 
certainly  help  us  to  a  new  livelihood.  His  entreaty  was,  that 
he  might  do  something  to  smooth  my  life  and  yours  ;  and  I 
gave  him  my  promise  that  if  we  ever  wanted  a  friend,  I  would 
remember  him.     Then  his  name  was  to  be  no  secret. 

"  Harriet,"  said  her  brother,  who  had  listened  with  close 
attention,  "  describe  this  gentleman  to  me.  I  surely  ought  to 
know  one  who  knows  me  so  well." 

"  His  sister  painted,  as  vividly  as  she  could,  the  features, 
stature,  and  dress  of  her  visitor  ;  but  John  Carker,  either  from 
having  no  knowledge  of  the  original,  or  from  some  fault  in  her 
description,  or  from  some  abstraction  of  his  thoughts  as  he 
walked  to  and  fro,  pondering,  could  not  recognize  the  portrait 
she  presented  to  him. 

However,  it  was  agreed  between  them  that  he  should  see 
the  original  when  he  next  appeared.  This  concluded,  the  sis- 
ter applied  herself,  with  a  less  anxious  breast,  to  her  domestic 
occupations  ;  and  the  gray-haired  man,  late  Junior  of  Dombey's, 
devoted  the  first  day  of  his  unwonted  liberty  to  working  in  the 
garden. 

It  was  quite  late  at  night  and  the  brother  was  reading  aloud 
while  the  sister  plied  her  needle,  when  they  were  interrupted 
by  a  knocking  at  the  door.  In  the  atmosphere  of  vague  anxiety 
and  dread  that  lowered  about  them  in  connection  with  their 
fugitive  brother,  this  sound,  unusual  there,  became  almost 
alarming.  The  brother  going  to  the  door,  the  sister  sat  and 
listened  timidly.  Some  one  spoke  to  him,  and  he  replied  and 
seemed  surprised ;  and  after  a  few  words,  the  two  approached 
together. 

"  Harriet,"  said  her  brother,  lighting  in  their  late  visitor, 
and  speaking  in  a  low  voice,  "  Mr.  Morfin — the  gentleman  so 
long  in  Dombey's  house  with  James." 

His  sister  started  back,  as  if  a  ghost  had  entered.  In  the 
doorway  stood  the  unknown  frftMul,  with  the  dark  hair  sprinkled 
with  gray,  the  ruddy  face,  the  broad  clear  brow,  and  hazel  eyes, 
whose  secret  she  had  kept  so  long  ! 

"  John  !  "  she  said,  half-breathless.  "  It  is  the  gentleman  I 
told  you  of,  to-day  !  " 

"  The  gentleman.  Miss  Harriet,"  said  the  visitor  coming  in 
—for  he  had  stopped  a  moment  in  the  doorway.  "  is  greatly 


MORE  fXTELLIGENCK.  709 

relieved  to  Iicar  you  say  that  :  lie  has  been  cle\isinj;  ways  and 
means,  all  the  way  here,  of  explniiiinj;  himself,  and  has  been 
satisfied  with  none.  Mr.  John,  1  am  not  quite  a  strangei  here. 
You  were  stricken  with  astonishment  when  you  saw  me  at  )ouf 
door  just  now.  I  observe  you  are  more  astonished  at  present. 
Well!  That's  reasonable  enou2;h  under  existing  circumstances. 
4f  we  were  not  such  creatures  of  habit  as  we  are,  we  shouldn  t 
have  reason  to  be  astonished  half  so  often." 

By  this  time,  he  had  greeted  Harriet  with  that  agreeable 
mingling  of  cordiality  and  respect  which  she  recollected  so  well, 
and  had  sat  down  near  her,  pulled  ofif  his  gloves,  and  thrown 
them  into  his  hat  upon  the  table. 

^  "There's  nothing  astonishing,"  he  said,  "in  my  having  con- 
ceived a  desire  to  see  your  sister,  Mr.  John,  or  in  my  having 
gratified  it  in  my  own  way.  As  to  the  regularity  of  my  visits 
since  (which  she  may  ha\-e  mentioned  to  you),  there  is  nothing 
extraordinary  in  that.  They  soon  grew  into  a  habit ;  and  we 
are  creatures  of  habit — creatures  of  habit !  " 

Putting  his  liands  into  his  pockets,  and  leaning  back  in  his 
chair,  he  looked  at  the  brother  and  sister  as  if  it  were  interest- 
ing to  him  to  see  them  together  ;  and  went  on  to  say,  with  a 
kind  of  irritable  thoughtfulness :  "It's  this  same  habit  that 
confirms  some  of  us,  who  are  capable  of  better  things,  in  Luci- 
fer's own  pride  and  stubbornness — that  confirms  and  deepens 
others  of  us  in  villainy— more  of  us  in  indifference — that  hardens 
us  from  day  to  day,  according  to  the  temper  of  our  clay,  like 
images,  and  leaves  us  as  susceptible  as  images  to  new  impres- 
sions and  convictions.  You  shall  judge  of  its  mfiuence  on  me, 
John.  For  more  years  than  I  need  name,  I  had  my  small,  and 
exactly  defined  share,  in  the  management  of  Dombey's  house, 
and  saw  your  brother  (who  has  proved  himself  a  scoundrel ! 
Your  sister  will  forgive  my  being  obliged  to  mention  it)  extend- 
ing and  extending  his  influence,  until  the  business  and  its  owner 
were  his  football  ;  and  saw  you  toiling  at  your  obscure  desk 
every  day  ;  and  was  quite  content  to  be  as  little  troubled  as  I 
might  be,  out  of  my  own  strip  of  duty,  and  to  let  everything 
about  me  go  on,  day  by  day,  unquestioned,  like  a  great  machine 
— that  was  its  habit  and  mine — and  to  take  it  all  for  granted, 
and  consider  it  all  right.  My  Wednesday  nights  came  regularly 
round,  our  quartette  parties  came  regularly^olT,  my  violoncello 
was  in  good  tune,  and  there  was  nothing  wrong  in  my  world — 
or  if  anything  not  much — or  little  or  much,  it  was  no  affair  of 
mine." 

"  j;  C4I1  finswer  for  your  being  ir>ore  respected  apd  beloved 


7 1  o  DOMPE  Y  AND  SON: 

(luiin_;;  all  (hat  time  than  anybody  in  the  house,  Sir,"  said  John 
Carker. 

"  Pooh !  Good-natured  and  easy  enough,  I  dare  say," 
returned  the  other,  "a  habit  I  had.  It  suited  the  Manager;  it 
suited  the  man  he  managed  :  it  suited  me  best  of  all.  I  did 
what  was  allotted  to  me  to  do,  made  no  court  to  either  of  them, 
and  was  glad  to  occupy  a  station  in  which  none  was  required. 
So  I  should  have  gone  on  till  now,  but  that  my  room  had  a  thin 
wall.  You  con  tell  your  sister  that  it  was  divided  from  the 
Manager's  room  by  a  wainscot  partition." 

"  They  were  adjoining  rooms :  had  been  one,  perhaps, 
originally  ;  and  were  separated,  as  Mr.  Morfin  says,"  said  her 
brother,  looking  back  to  him  for  the  resumption  of  his  explana- 
tion. 

"  I  have  whistled,  hummed  tunes,  gone  accurately  through 
rhe  whole  of  Beethoven's  Sonata  in  H,  to  let  him  know  that  I 
was  within  hearing,"  said  Mr.  Morhn  ;  "  but  he  never  heeded  me. 
It  happened  seldom  enough  that  I  was  within  hearing  of  any- 
thing of  a  private  nature,  certainly.  But  when  1  was,  and 
couldn't  otherwise  avoid  knowing  something  of  it,  I  walked  out, 
1  walked  out  once,  John,  during  a  conversation  between  two 
brothers,  to  which,  in  the  beginning,  young  Walter  Gay  was 
a  party.  But  I  overheard  some  of  it  before  I  left  the  room. 
You  remember  it  sufficiently,  perhaps,  to  tell  jour  sister  what 
its  nature  was  ?  " 

"It  referred,  Harriet,"  said  her  brother  in  a  low  voice,  "  to 
the  past,  and  to  our  relative  positions  in  the  House." 

"Its  matter  was  not  new  to  me,  but  was  presented  in  a  new 
aspect.  It  shook  me  in  my  habit — the  habit  of  nine-tenths  of 
the  world — of  belie\  ing  that  all  was  right  about  me,  because  I 
was  used  to  it,"  said  their  visitor ;  "  and  induced  me  to  recall 
the  history  of  the  two  brothers,  and  to  ponder  on  it.  I  think  it 
was  almost  the  first  time  in  my  life  when  I  fell  into  this  train  of 
refiection — how  will  many  things  that  are  familiar,  and  quite 
matters  of  course  to  us  now,  look  when  we  come  to  see  them 
from  that  new  and  distant  point  of  view  which  we  must  all  take 
up,  one  day  or  other?  I  was  something  less  good-natured,  as 
the  phrase  goes,  after  that  morning,  less  easy  and  complacent 
altogether." 

He  sat  for  a  minute  or  so,  drumming  with  one  hand  on  the 
table  ;  and  resumed  in  a  hurry,  as  if  he  were  an.xious  to  get  rid 
of  his  confession. 

"  Before  I  knew  what  to  do,  or  whether  I  could  do  anything, 
there  was  a  second  conversation  between  the  same  (wo  brothers 


More  l\'j •/■:/. l jcea  ce. 


yi.t 


in  wliicl\  tlitir  sister  was  nieiUioiiecI.  I  Iiad  no  scruples  of  con- 
science in  suffering  all  the  waifs  and  strays  of  tliat  couNcrsation 
to  float  to  me  as  freely  as  they  would.  1  considered  thcni  mine 
by  right.  v\fler  that,  I  came  here  to  see  the  sister  for  myself. 
The  first  tiine  1  stopped  at  the  garden  gate,  1  made  a  pretext 
of  incjuiring  into  the  character  of  a  poor  neighbor  ;  but  I 
wandered  out  of  that  track,  and  I  think  Miss  Harriet  mistrusted 
me.  'J'he  second  time  I  asked  leave  to  come  in  ;  came  in  ;  and 
said  what  I  wished  to  say.  Vour  sister  showed  me  reasons 
which  I  dared  not  dispute,  for  receiving  no  assistance  from  me 
then  ;  l)ut  I  established  a  means  of  communication  between  us, 
which  remained  unbroken  until  within  these  few  days,  when  [ 
was  prevented,  by  important  matters  that  have  lately  devolved 
upon  me,  from  mainiaining  them." 

"  How  little  I  have  suspected  this,"  said  John  Carker,  "  when 
I  have  seen  you  every  day.  Sir  !  If  Harriet  could  have  guessed 
your  name — " 

"  Why,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  John,"  interposed  the  visitor, 
"  I  kept  it  to  myself  for  two  reasons.  I  don't  know  that  the 
first  might  have  been  binding  alone  ;  but  one  has  no  business 
to  take  credit  for  good  intentions,  and  I  made  up  my  mind,  at 
all  events,  not  to  disclose  myself  until  I  should  be  able  to  do 
you  some  real  service  or  other.  Afy  .second  reason  was,  that  I 
always  hoped  there  might  be  some  lingering  possibility  of  your 
brother's  relenting  towards  you  both  ;  ami  in  that  case,  I  felt 
that  where  there  was  the  chance  of  a  man  of  his  suspicious, 
watchful  character,  discovering  that  \ou  had  been  secretly- 
befriended  by  me,  there  was  the  chance  of  a  new  and  fatal  cause 
of  division.  I  resolved,  to  be  sure,  at  the  risk  of  turning  liis 
displeasure  against  myself — which  would  have  been  no  matter 
. — to  watch  my  opportunity  of  serving  you  with  the  head  of  the 
House  ;  but  the  distractions  of  death,  courtship,  marriage,  and 
domestic  unhappiness,  have  left  us  no  head  but  your  brollier 
for  this  long,  long  time.  And  it  would  ha^  e  been  better  for 
us,"  said  the  visitor,  dropping  his  \oice,  "  to  have  been  a  lifeless 
trunk." 

He  seemed  conscious  that  these  latter  words  had  escaped 
him  against  his  will,  and  stretching  out  a  hand  to  the  brother, 
and  a  hand  to  the  sister,  continuecl  : 

**  All  1  could  desire  to  say,  and  more,  I  have  now  said.  AH 
I  mean  goes  beyond  words,  as  I  hope  you  understand  and 
believe.  The  time  has  come,  John — though  most  unfortunately 
and  unhappily  come — when  1  may  help  you  without  interfering 
\vith  that  redeeming  struggle,  which  has  lasted  through  so  many 


7  1 2  DOMBK  \ '  AM)  SOW 

years;  since  you  were  discliarged  from  it  to-day  by  no  act  of 
your  own.  It  is  late  ;  J  need  say  no  more  to-night.  You  will 
guard  the  treasure  you  have  here,  without  advice  or  reminder 
from  me." 

With  these  words  he  rose  to  go. 

"  But  go  you  first,  John,"'  he  said  good-humoredly,  "  with  a 
light,  without  saying  what  you  want  to  say,  whatever  that  may 
be  ;  "  John  Carker's  heart  was  full,  and  he  would  have  relieved 
it  in  speech,  if  he  could  ;  "  and  let  me  have  a  word  with  your 
sister.  We  have  talked  alone  before,  and  in  this  room  too ; 
though  it  looks  more  natural  with  you  here." 

Following  him  out  with  his  eyes,  he  turned  kindly  to  Har- 
riet, and  said  in  a  lower  voice,  and  with  an  altered  and  graver 
manner: 

"  You  wish  to  ask  me  something  of  the  man  whose  sister 
it  is  your  misfortune  to  be." 

"  I  dread  to  ask,"  said  Harriet. 

"  You  have  looked  so  earnestly  at  me  more  than  once,"  re- 
joined the  visitor,  "  that  I  think  I  can  divine  your  question. 
Has  he  taken  money  ?     Is  it  that  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  He  has  not." 

"  I  thank  Heaven  !  "  said  Harriet.     "  For  the  sake  of  John." 

"That  he  has  abused  his  trust  in  many  ways,"  said  Mr. 
Morfin  ;  "  that  he  has  oftener  dealt  and  speculated  to  advan- 
tage for  himself,  than  for  the  House  he  represented ;  that  he 
has  led  the  House  on,  to  prodigious  ventures,  often  resulting  in 
enormous  losses  ;  that  he  has  always  pampered  the  vanity  and 
ambition  of  his  employer,  when  it  was  his  duty  to  have  held 
them  in  check,  and  shown,  as  it  was  in  his  power  to  do,  to  what 
they  tended  here  or  there ;  will  not,  perhaps,  surprise  you  now. 
Undertakings  have  been  entered  on,  to  swell  the  reputation  of 
the  House  for  vast  resources,  and  to  exhibit  it  in  magnificent 
contrast  to  other  merchants'  houses,  of  which  it  requires  a 
steady  head  to  contemplate  the  possibly — a  few  disastrous 
changes  of  adairs  might  render  them  the  probably — ruinous 
consequences.  In  the  midst  of  the  many  transactions  of  the 
House,  in  most  parts  of  the  world  :  a  great  labyrinth  of  which 
only  he  has  held  the  clue  :  he  has  had  the  opportunity,  and  he 
seems  to  have  u.sed  it,  of  keeping  the  various  results  afloat, 
when  ascertained,  and  substituting  estimates  and  generalities 
for  facts.     lUit  latterly — you  follow  me.  Miss  Harriet  ?  " 

"Perfectly,  perfectly,"  she  answered,  with  her  frightened 
face  fixed  on'his.     "  Pray  tell  me  all  the  worst  at  once." 


MORE  INTELLIGENCE.  yij 

*'  Latterly,  he  appears  to  have  devoted  the  greatest  pains  to 
making  these  results  so  plain  and  clear,  that  reference  to  the 
private  books  enables  one  to  grasp  them,  numerous  and 
varying  as  they  are,  with  extraordinary  ease.  As  if  he  had  re- 
solved to  show  his  employer  at  one  broad  view  what  has  been 
brought  upon  him  by  ministration  to  his  ruling  passion  !  That 
it  has  been  his  constant  practice  to  minister  to  that  passion 
basely,  and  to  flatter  it  corruptly,  is  indubitable.  In  that,  his 
criminality,  as  it  is  connected  with  the  afifairs  of  the  House, 
chiefly  consists." 

"  One  other  word  before  you  leave  me,  dear  Sir,"  said  Har- 
riet.    "  There  is  no  danger  in  all  this  ?  " 

"  How  danger  "i  "  he  returned,  with  a  little  hesitation. 

"  To  the  credit  of  the  House  ?  " 

"I  cannot  help  answering  you  plainly,  and  trusting  you  com- 
pletely," said  Mr.  Morfin,  after  a  moment's  survey  of  her  face. 

"  You  may.     Indeed  you  may  !  " 

"  I  am  sure  I  may.  Danger  to  the  House's  credit  ?  No 
none.  There  may  be  difficulty,  greater  or  less  difficulty,  but  no 
danger,  unless — unless,  indeed — the  head  of  the  House,  unable 
to  bring  his  mind  to  the  reduction  of  its  enterprises,  and 
positively  refusing  to  believe  that  it  is,  or  can  be,  in  any  posi- 
tion but  the  position  in  which  he  has  always  represented  it  to 
himself,  should  urge  it  beyond  its  strength.  Then  it  would 
totter." 

"  But  there  is  no  apprehension  of  that  ?  "  said  Harriet. 

"There  shall  be  no  half-confidence,"  he  replied,  shaking  her 
hand,  "  between  us.  Mr.  Dombey  is  unapproachable  by  any 
one,  and  his  state  of  mind  is  haughty,  rash,  unreasonable,  and 
ungovernable,  now.  But  he  is  disturbed  and  agitated  now  be- 
yond all  common  bounds,  and  it  may  pass.  You  now  know  all, 
both  worst  and  best.     No  more  to-night,  and  good-night  !  " 

With  tliat  he  kissed  her  hand,  and,  passing  out  to  the  door 
where  her  brother  stood  awaiting  his  coming,  put  him  cheer- 
fully aside  when  he  essayed  to  speak  ;  told  him  that,  as  they 
would  see  each  other  soon  and  often,  he  might  speak  at  another 
time,  if  he  would,  but  there  was  no  leisure  for  it  then  ;  and 
went  away  at  a  round  pace,  in  order  that  no  word  of  gratitude 
might  follow  him. 

The  brother  and  sister  sat  conversing  by  the  fireside,  until 
it  was  almost  day  ;  made  sleepless  by  this  glimpse  of  the  new 
world  that  opened  before  them,  and  feeling  like  two  people  ship- 
wrecked long  ago,  upon  a  solitary  coast,  to  whom  a  ship  had 
come  at  last,  when  they  were  old  in   resignation,  and  had  lost 


714 


DOMBE  V  AND  SOX. 


all  thouglit  of  any  otlier  home.  But  anotlier  and  different  kind 
of  disquietude  kept  them  waking  too.  The  darkness  out  o! 
M'hich  this  light  had  broken  on  them  gathered  around  ;  and  the 
shadow  of  their  guilty  brother  was  in  the  house  where  his  foot 
had  never  trod. 

Nor  was  it  to  be  driven  out,  nor  did  it  fade  before  the  sun. 
Next  morning  it  was  there ;  at  noon  ;  at  night.  Darkest  and 
most  distinct  at  night,  as  is  now  to  be  told. 

John  Carker  had  gone  out,  in  pursuance  of  a  letter  of  ap- 
pointment from  their  friend,  and  Harriet  was  left  in  the  house 
alone.  She  had  been  alone  some  hours.  A  dull,  grave  even- 
ing, and  a  deepening  twilight,  were  not  favorable  to  the  removal 
of  the  oppression  on  her  spirits.  'I'he  idea  of  this  brother,  long 
unseen  and  unknown,  flitted  about  her  in  frightful  shapes.  He 
was  dead,  dying,  calling  to  her,  staring  at  her,  frowning  on  her. 
The  pictures  in  her  mind  were  so  obtrusive  and  exact  that,  as 
the  twilight  deepened,  she  dreaded  to  raise  her  head  and  look 
at  the  dark  corners  of  the  room,  lest  his  wrath,  the  offspring 
of  her  excited  imagination,  should  be  waiting  there,  to  startle 
her.  Once  she  had  such  a  fancy  of  his  being  in  the  next  room, 
hiding — though  she  knew  quite  well  what  a  distempered  fancy 
it  was,  and  had  no  belief  in  it — that  she  forced  herself  to  go 
there,  for  her  own  conviction.  PJut  in  vain.  The  room  resumed 
its  shadowy  terrors,  the  moment  she  left  it ;  and  she  had  no 
more  power  to  divest  herself  of  these  vague  impressions  of  dread, 
than  if  they  had  been  stone  giants,  rooted  in  the  solid  earth. 

It  was  almost  dark,  and  she  was  sitting  near  the  window, 
with  her  head  upon  her  hand,  looking  down,  when,  sensible  of 
a  sudden  increase  in  the  gloom  of  the  apartment,  she  raised 
her  eyes,  and  uttered  an  involuntary  cry.  Close  to  the  glass,  a 
pale,  scared  face  gazed  in  ;  vacantly,  for  an  instant,  as  search- 
ing for  an  object :  then  the  eyes  rested  on  herself,  and  lighted 
up. 

"  Let  me  in  !  Let  me  in  !  I  want  to  speak  to  you  !  "  and 
the  hand  rattled  on  the  glass. 

She  recognized  immediately  the  woman  witii  the  long  dark 
hair,  to  whom  she  had  given  warmth,  food,  and  shelter,  one  wet 
night.  Naturally  afraid  of  her,  remembering  her  violent  be- 
havior, Harriet,  retreating  a  little  from  the  window,  stood  unde 
cided  and  alarmed. 

"  Let  me  in  !  Let  me  speak  to  you  !  I  am  thankful — quiet 
—humble — anything  you  like.     J)ui  let  me  speak  to  you." 

The  vehement  manner  of  the  entreaty,  the  earnest  ex- 
pression of  the  face,  the  trembling  of  the  two  hands  that  vcro 


MORE  INTELLIGENCE.  715 

raised  imploringly,  a  certain  dread  and  terror  in  the  voice  akin 
to  her  own  condition  at  the  moment,  prevailed  with  Harriet. 
She  hastened  to  the  door  and  opened  it. 

"  May  1  come  in,  or  shall  1  speak  here  .''  "  said  the  woman, 
catching  at  her  hand. 

"  What  is  it  that  you  want  ?    What  is  it  that  you  have  to  say  ? 

"  Not  much,  but  let  me  say  it  out,  or  I  shall  never  say  it. 
I  am  tempted  now  to  go  away.  There  seem  to  be  hands 
dragging  me  from  the  door.  Let  me  come  in,  if  you  can  trust 
me  for  this  once !"  ,  •  u    /: 

Her  energy  again  prevailed,  and  they  passed  mto  the  hre- 
light  of  the  little  "kitchen,  where  she  had  before  sat,  and  ate, 
and  dried  her  clothes. 

"  Sit  there,"  said  Alice,  kneeling  down  beside  her,  and 
look  at  me.     You  remember  me  ? " 

"  I  do."  J     . 

"  You  remember  what  I  told  you  I  had  been,  and  where  1 
came  from,  ragged  and  lame,  with  the  fierce  wind  and  weather 
beating  on  my  head  ?  " 

"Yes."  ,    , 

"  You  know  how  I  came  back  that  night,  and  threw  youi 
money  in  the  dirt,  and  cursed  you  and  your  race.  Now,  see 
me  here,  upon  my  knees.     Am  I  less  earnest  now,  than  1  was 

then?"  ,      ,.    r       • 

"  If  what  you  ask,"  said  Harriet,  gently,  "is  forgiveness— 
"  Rut  it's  not !  "    returned  the  other,  with  a  proud,  fierce 
look.     "  What  I  ask  is  to  be  believed.     Now  you  shall  judge  if 
I  am  worthy  of  belief,  both  as  I  was,  and  as  I  am." 

Still  upon  her  knees,  and  with  her  eyes  upon  the  fire,  arid 
the  fire  shining  on  her  ruined  beauty  and  her  wild  black  hair, 
one  lon<-  tress  of  which  she  pulled  over  her  shoulder,  and  wound 
about  her  hand,  and  thoughtfully  bit  and  tore  while  speaking, 

she  went  on  :  ,,.,,,,• 

"  W^hen  I  was  young  and  pretty,  and  this,  plucking  con- 
temptuously at  the  hair  she  held,  "  was  only  handled  delicately, 
and  couldn't  be  admired  enough,  my  mother,  who  had  not  been 
very  mindful  of  me  as  a  child,  found  out  my  merits,  and  was 
fond  of  me,  and  proud  of  me.  She  was  covetous  and  poor, 
and  thought  to  make  a  sort  of  property  of  me.  No  great  lady 
evf^r  thought  that  of  a  daughter  yet,  I'm  sure,  or  acted  as  if 
gl^e  did— it's  never  done,  we  all  know— and  that  shows  that  the 
only  instances  of  mothers  bringing  up  their  daughters  wrong, 
and  evil  coming  of  it,  are  among  such  miserable  folks  as  us 
Looking  at  the  fire,  as  if  she  were  forgetful,  for  the  moment, 


;  1 6  DOMBE  Y  AXD  SOy. 

of  having  any  auditor,  she  continued  in  a  dreamy  way,  as  sh* 
wound  the  long  tress  of  hair  tight  round  and  round  her  hand. 

"  What  came  of  that,  1  needn't  say.  Wretched  marriages 
don't  come  ot  such  things,  in  our  degree  ;  only  wretchedness 
and  ruin      Wretchedness  and  ruin  came  on  me — came  on  me." 

Raising  her  eyes  swiftly  from  their  moody  gaze  upon  the  fire, 
to  Harriet's  face,  she  said  : 

"  I  am  wasting  time,  and  there  is  none  to  spare  ;  yet  if  I 
hadn't  thought  of  all,  I  shouldn't  be  here  now.  Wretchedness 
and  ruin  came  on  me,  I  say.  I  was  made  a  short-lived  toy,  and 
flung  aside  more  cruelly  and  carelessly  than  even  such  things 
are.     By  whose  hand  do  you  think  ?  " 

"  Why  do  you  ask  me }  "  said  Harriet. 

"  Why  do  you  tremble  t  "  rejoined  Alice,  with  an  eager  look. 
••  His  usage  made  a  Devil  of  me.  I  sunk  in  wretchedness  and 
ruin,  lower  and  lower  yet.  1  was  concerned  in  a  robbery — in 
every  part  of  it  but  the  gains — and  was  found  out,  and  sent  to 
be  tried,  without  a  friend,  without  a  penny.  Though  1  was  but 
a  girl,  I  would  have  gone  to  Death,  sooner  than  ask  him  for  a 
word,  if  a  word  of  his  could  have  saved  me.  I  would  !  To  any 
death  that  could  have  been  invented.  But  my  mother,  covetous 
always,  sent  to  him  in  my  name,  told  the  true  story  of  my  case, 
and  humbly  prayed  and  petitioned  for  a  small  last  gift — tor  not 
so  many  pounds  as  1  have  fingers  on  this  hand.  Who  was  it 
do  you  think,  who  snapped  his  fingers  at  me  in  my  misery,  lying, 
as  he  believed,  at  his  feet,  and  left  me  without  even  this  poor 
sign  of  remembrance  ;  well  satisfied  that  I  should  be  sent  abroad, 
beyond  the  reacli  of  further  trouble  to  him,  and  should  die,  and 
rot  there  ?     Who  was  this,  do  you  think  }  " 

"  Why  do  you  ask  me  ?  "  repeated  Harriet. 

"  Why  do  you  tremble  ?"  said  Alice,  laying  her  hand  upon 
her  arm,  and  looking  in  her  face,  "but  that  the  answer  is  on 
your  lips  !     It  was  your  brother  James." 

Harriet  trembled  more  and  more,  but  did  not  avert  her  eyes 
from  the  eager  look  that  rested  on  them. 

*'  When  I  knew  you  were  his  sister — which  was  on  that 
night — I  came  back,  weary  and  lame,  to  spurn  your  gift.  I  felt 
that  night  as  if  I  could  have  travelled,  weary  and  lame,  over 
the  whole  world,  to  stab  him,  if  I  could  have  found  him  in  a 
lonely  place  with  no  one  near.  Do  you  believe  that  I  was 
earnest  in  all  that  ?  " 

"  1  do !     Good  Heaven,  why  are  you  come  again  ?  " 

"  Since  then,"  said  Alice,  with  the  same  grasp  of  her  arro 
god  the  same  look  in  her  face,  "  I  have  seen  him  I     J  havi 


StOkE  IS'TEI.IJUEXCE.  ^17 

followed  him  wllli  my  eyes,  in  the  broad  day.  If  any  spark  of 
my  resentment  shimbered  in  my  bosom,  it  sprunjij  into  a  blaze 
when  my  eyes  rested  on  him.  You  know  he  lias  wronged  a 
proud  man,  and  made  him  his  deadly  enemy.  What  if  I  had 
given  information  of  him  to  that  man  1  "' 

"  Information!"  repeated  Harriet. 

"  What  if  1  had  found  out  one  who  knew  your  l«-other"si 
secret  ;  who  knew  the  manner  of  his  flight ;  who  knew  where  he 
and  the  companion  of  his  flight  were  gone  1  What  if  I  had 
made  him  utter  all  his  knowledge,  word  by  word,  before  his 
enemy,  concealed  to  hear  it  ?  What  if  I  had  sat  by  at  the  time, 
looking  into  this  enemy's  face,  and  seeing  it  change  till  it  was 
scarcely  human.'  What  if  I  had  seen  him  rush  away,  mad,  in 
pursuit  ?  What  if  I  knew,  now,  that  he  was  on  his  road,  more 
fiend  than  man,  and  must,  m  so  many  hours,  come  up  with  him  V 

"  Remove  your  hand  !  "  said  Harriet,  recoiling.  "  Go  away  ! 
Your  touch  is  dreadful  to  me  !  " 

"  1  have  done  this,"  pursued  the  other,  with  her  eager  look, 
regardless  of  the  interruption.  "  Do  I  speak  and  look  as  if  I 
really  had?     Do  you  believe  what  I  am  saying? ' 

"  I  fear  I  must.     Let  my  arm  go  !  " 

"  Not  yet.  A  moment  more.  You  can  think  what  my 
revengeful  purpose  must  have  been,  to  last  so  long,  and  urge 
me  to  do  this  ?  " 

"  Dreadful !"  said  Harriet. 

"  Then  when  you  see  me  now,"  said  Alice  hoarsely,  "  here 
again,  kneeling  quietly  on  the  ground,  with  my  touch  upon  your 
arm,  with  my  eyes  upon  your  face,  you  may  believe  that  there  is 
no  common  earnestness  in  what  1  say,  and  that  no  common 
struggle  has  been  battling  in  my  breast.  I  am  ashamed  to 
speak  the  words,  but  I  relent.  I  despise  myself ;  I  have  fought 
with  myself  all  day,  and  all  last  night  ■  but  I  relent  towards  him 
without  reason,  and  wish  to  repair  what  I  have  done,  if  it  is 
possible.  I  wouldn't  have  them  come  together  while  his  pursuer^i 
is  so  blind  and  headlong.  If  you  had  seen  him  as  he  went  out 
last  night,  you  would  know  the  danger  better." 

"  How  shall  it  be  prevented  !  What  can  I  do  !  "  cried 
Harriet. 

"  All  night  long,"  pursued  the  other,  hurriedly,  "  I  had 
dreams  of  him — and  yet  I  didn't  sleep — in  his  blood.  All  day, 
I  have  had  him  near  me." 

"  What  can  I  do  I "  cried  Harriet,  shuddering  at  these 
words. 

"  if  there  is  any  one  who'll  write,  or  send,  or  go  to  him,  let 


71^  DoynuiY  AS'J)  sow 

them  lose  no  time.  He  is  at  Dijon.  Do  you  know  the  name, 
and  where  it  is  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Warn  him  that  the  man  he  has  made  his  enemy  is  in  a 
frenzy,  and  that,  he  doesn't  know  him  if  he  makes  light  of  his 
approach.  Tell  him  that  he  is  on  the  road — 1  know  he  is  ! — 
and  hurrying  on.  Urge  him  to  get  away  while  there  is  time — ■ 
if  there  is  time — and  not  to  meet  him  yet.  A  month  or  so  will 
make  years  of  difference.  Let  them  not  encounter,  tiuough 
me.  Anywhere  but  there  !  Any  time  but  now  !  Let  his  foe 
follow  him,  and  find  him  for  himself,  but  not  through  me  ! 
There  is  enough  upon  my 'head  without." 

The  fire  ceased  to  be  reflected  in  her  jet  black  hair,  uplifted 
face,  and  eager  eyes  ;  her  hand  was  gone  from  Harriet's  arm  ; 
and  the  place  where  she  had  been  was  empty. 


CHAPTER     LIV. 

THE    FUGITIVES. 


The  time,  an  hour  short  of  midnight;  the  place,  a  Frenc'A 
Apartment,  comprising  some  half-dozen  rooms  ; — a  dull,  cold 
hall  or  corridor,  a  dining-room,  a  drawing-room,  a  bed-chamber, 
and  an  inner  drawing-room,  or  boudoir,  smaller  and  more  re- 
tired than  the  rest.  All  these  shut  in  by  one  large  pair  of 
doors  on  the  main  staircase,  but  each  room  provided  with  two 
or  three  pairs  of  doors  of  Us  own,  establishing  several  means  of 
communication  with  the  remaining  portion  of  the  apartment,  or 
with  certain  small  passages  within  the  wall,  leading,  as  is  not 
unusual  in  such  houses,  to  some  l):ick  stairs  with  an  obscuve 
outlet  below.  The  whole  situated  on  the  first  floor  of  so  large 
an  Hotel,  that  it  did  not  absorb  one  entire  row  of  windowi; 
upon  one  side  of  the  square  court-yard  in  the  centre,  upon 
which  the  whole  four  sides  of  the  mansion  looked. 

An  air  of  splentlor,  siilTiciently  faded  to  be  melancholy,  and 
sufficiently  dazzling  to  clog  and  embarrass  the  details  of  life 
with  a  show  of  stale,  reigned  in  these  rooms,  'i'he  walls  and 
ceilings  were  gilded  and  ]iainted  ;  the  floors  were  waxed  and 
polished  ;  crimson  drapery  hung  in  festoons  from  window,  door, 
and  mirror;  candelabra,  gnarled  and  intertwisted,  like  the 
branches  of  trees,  or  horns  of  animals,  jtuck  out  from  the 


THE  I-VCITIVHU.  719 

panels  of  the  wall.  llut  in  llie  daytime,  when  the  lattice- 
blinds  (now  closely  shut)  were  opened,  and  the  light  let  in, 
traces  were  discernible  among  this  finery,  of  wear  and  tear  and 
dust,  of  sun  and  damp  and  smoke,  and  lengthened  intervals  of 
want  of  use  and  habitation,  when  such  shows  and  toys  of  life 
seem  sensitive  like  life,  and  waste  as  men  shut  up  in  prison 
do.  Even  night,  and  clusters  of  burning  candles,  could  not 
wholly  efface  tliem,  though  the  general  glitter  threw  them  in  the 
shade. 

The  glitter  of  bright  tapers,  and  their  reflection  in  looking- 
glasses,  scraps  of  gilding  and  gay  colors,  were  confined,  on  this 
night,  to  one  room — tiiat  smaller  room  wMthin  the  rest,  just  now 
enumerated.  Seen  from  the  hall,  where  a  lamp  was  fcebl)- 
burning,  through  the  dark  perspective  of  open  doors,  it  looked 
as  shining  and  precious  as  a  gem.  In  the  heart  of  its  radiance 
sat  a  beautiful  woman — Edith. 

She  was  alone.  The  same  defiant,  scornful  woman  still. 
The  cheek  a  little  w^orn,  the  eye  a  little  larger  in  appearance, 
and  more  Kistious,  but  the  haughiy  bearing  just  the  same.  No 
shame  upon  her  brow  ;  no  late  repentance  bending  her  disdain- 
ful neck.  Imperious  and  stately  yet,  and  yet  regardless  of  her- 
self and  of  all  else,  she  sat  with  her  dark  eyes  cast  down,  waiting 
for  some  one. 

No  book,  no  work,  no  occupation  of  any  kind  but  her  own 
thoughts,  beguiled  the  tardy  time.  Some  purpose,  strong 
enough  to  fill  up  any  pause,  possessed  her.  With  her  lips 
pressed  together,  and  ([uivering  if  for  a  moment  she  released 
them  from  her  control  ;  with  her  nostril  inflated  ;  her  hands 
clasped  in  one  another  ;  and  her  purpose  swelling  in  her  breast  ; 
she  sat,  and  waited. 

At  the  sound  of  a  key  in  the  outer  door,  and  a  footstep  in 
the  hall,  she  started  up,  and  cried  "  Who's  that  ?  "  The  an- 
swer was  in  French,  and  two  men  came  in  with  jingling  trays, 
to  make  preparation  for  supper. 

"  Who  had  bade  them  to  do  so  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Monsieur  had  conunanded  it,  when  it  was  his  pleasure  to 
lake  the  apartment.  Monsieur  had  said,  when  he  stayed  there 
for  an  hour,  ai  route,  and  left,  the  letter  for  Madame — Madame 
had  received  it  surely  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  A  thousand  pardons  !  The  sudden  apprehension  that  it 
might  ha\  e  been  forgotten  had  struck  him  ;  "  a  bald  man,  with 
a  large  beard  from  a  neigboring  restaurant;  "with  despair.' 
Monsieur  had  said  that  supper  was  to  be  ready  at  that  hour ; 


^2d  DoMBHV  AND  SOX. 

also  that  he  had  forewarned  Madame  of  tlie  commands  he  had 
given,  in  his  letter.  Monsieur  had  done  the  Golden  Head  the 
honor  to  request  that  the  supper  sliould  be  choice  and  delicate. 
Monsieur  would  find  that  his  contidence  in  the  Golden  Head 
was  not  misplaced." 

Edith  said  no  more,  but  looked  on  thoughtfully  while  they 
prepared  the  table  for  two  persons,  and  set  the  wine  upon  it. 
She  arose  before  they  had  finished,  antl  taking  a  lamp,  passed 
into  the  bed-cha:viber  and  into  the  drawing-room,  where  she 
hurriedly  but  narrowly  examined  all  the  doors  ;  particularly  one 
in  the  former  room  that  opened  on  the  passage  in  the  wall. 
From  this  she  took  the  key,  and  put  it  on  the  outer  side.  She 
then  came  back. 

The  men — the  second  of  whom  was  a  dark,  bilious  subject, 
in  a  jacket,  close  shaved,  and  with  a  black  head  of  hair  close 
cropped — had  completed  their  preparation  of  the  table,  and 
were  standing  looking  at  it.  He  who  had  spoken  before,  in- 
quired whether  Madame  thought  it  would  be  long  before  Mon- 
sieur arrived  1 

"  She  couldn't  say.     It  was  all  one." 

"  Pardon  !  '^I'here  was  the  supper  !  It  should  be  eaten  on 
on  the  instant.  Monsieur  (who  spoke  I'>ench  like  an  Angel — 
or  a  Frenchman^^it  was  all  the  same)  had  spoken  with  great 
emphasis  of  his  punctuality.  But  the  Fnglish  nation  had  so 
grand  a  genius  for  punctuality.  Ah !  what  noise !  Great 
Heaven,  here  was  Monsieur.     IJehold  him  !  " 

In  effect.  Monsieur,  admitted  by  the  other  of  the  two,  came, 
■with  his  gleaming  teeth,  through  the  dark  rooms,  like  a  mouth  ; 
and  arriving  in  that  sanctuary  of  light  and  color,  a  figure  at  full 
length,  embraced  Madame,  and  addressed  her  in  the  French 
tongue  as  his  charming  wife. 

"  My  God  !  Madame  is  going  to  faint.  Madame  is  over- 
come with  joy  !  "  The  bald  man  with  the  beard  observed  it, 
and  cried  out.  / 

Madame  had  only  shrunk  and  shivered.  Before  the  words\ 
were  spoken,  she  was  standing  with  her  hand  uj^on  the  velvet 
back  of  a  great  chair  ;  her  figure  drawn  up  to  its  full  height, 
and  her  face  immovable. 

"  Francois  has  fiown  over  to  the  Golden  Head  for  supper. 
He  flies  on  these  occasions  like  an  angel  or  a  bird.  The  bag- 
gage of  Monsieur  is  in  his  room.  All  is  arranged.  The  supper 
will  be  here  this  moment."  These  facts  the  bald  man  notified 
with  bows  and  smiles,  and  presently  the  supper  came, 

Tlie  hot  dishes  were  on  a  chafing-dish  ;  the  cold  alrca<Iy  set 


THE  FCGITIVES  ^21 

forth,  with  the  change  of  service  on  a  side  board.  Monsieuf 
was  satisfied  with  tliis  arrangement.  The  supper  table  being 
small,  it  pleased  him  very  well  Let  them  set  the  chafing-dish 
upon  the  floor,  and  go.  He  would  remove  the  dishes  with  his 
own  hands. 

"  Pardon  !  "  said  the  bald  man,  politely.  "It  was  impos- 
sible ! ' 

Monsieur  was  of  another  opinion.  He  required  no  further 
attendance  that  night. 

"  ]5ut  Madame  ! the  bald  man  hinted. 

"  Madame,'  replied  Monsieur,  "  liad  her  own  maid.  It  was 
enough. ' 

""a  million  pardons  !     No  !     Madame  had  no  maid  !  " 

"  I  came  here  alone,"  said  Edith.  "  It  was  my  choice  to  do 
so.  1  am  well  used  to  travelling  ;  I  want  no  attendance.  They 
need  send  nobody  to  me." 

Monsieur  accordingly,  persevering  in  his  first  proposed 
impossibility,  proceeded  to  follow  the  two  attendants  to  the 
outer  door,  and  secure  it  after  them  for  the  night.  The  bald 
man  turnmg  round  to  bow,  as  he  went  out,  observed  that 
Madame  still  stood  with  her  hand  upon  the  velvet  back  of  the 
great  chair,  and  that  her  face  was  quite  regardless  of  him, 
though  she  was  looking  straight  before  her. 

As  the  sound  of  Carker's  fastening  the  door  resounded 
through  the  intermediate  rooms,  and  seemed  to  come  hushed 
and  stifled  into  that  last  distant  one,  the  sound  of  the  Cathedral 
clock  striking  twelve  mingled  with  it,  in  Edith's  ears.  She 
heard  hun  pause,  as  if  he  heard  it  too  and  listened  ,  and  then 
came  back  towards  her,  laymg  a  long  train  of  footsteps 
through  the  silence,  and  sluitling  all  the  doors  behind  him  as  he 
camelilong.  Her  hand,  for  a  moment,  left  the  velvet  chair  to 
bring  a  kn'ife  within  her  reach  upon  the  table  ;  then  she  stood 
as  she  had  stood  before. 

"  How  strange  to  come  here  Ijy  yourself,  my  love,"  he  said 
as  he  entered. 

"  What  ?  "  she  returned. 

Her  tone  was  so  harsh  ;  the  quick  turn  of  her  head  so  fierce  ; 
her  attitude  so  repellent  ;  and  her  frown  so  black,  that  he  stood 
with  the  lamp  in  his  hand,  looking  at  her,  as  if  she  had  struck 
him  motionless. 

"/  say,"  he  at  length  repeated,  putting  down  the  lamp,  and 
smiling  his  most  courtly  smile,  "  fiow  strange  to  come  here 
alone!     It  was  unnecessary  caution  surely,  and  migjit  have 


y^2  DOMPF.  y  AXD  soy. 

defeated  itself.  You  were  to  have  engaged  an  attendant  at 
Havre  or  Rouen,  and  have  had  abundance  of  time  for  the  pur- 
pose, though  you  had  been  the  most  capricious  and  difficult  (as 
j'ou  are  the  most  beautiful,  my  love)  of  women." 

Her  eyes  gleamed  strangely  on  him,  but  she  stood  with  hei 
hand  resting  on  the  chair,  and  said  not  a  word. 

"  I  have  never,"  resumed  Carker,  '*  seen  you  look  so  hand- 
some, as  you  do  to-night.  Even  the  picture  I  have  carried  ia 
my  mind  during  tliis  cruel  probation,  and  which  I  have  con- 
templated night  and  day,  is  exceeded  by  the  reality." 

Not  a  word.  Not  a  look.  Her  eyes  completely  hidden  by 
their  drooping  lashes,  but  her  head  held  up. 

"  Hard,  unrelenting  terms  they  were  !  "  said  Carker,  with  a 
smile,  "but  they  are  all  fulfilled  and  passed,  and  make  the 
present  more  delicious  and  more  safe.  Sicily  shall  be  the  place 
of  our  retreat.  In  the  idlest  and  easiest  part  of  the  world,  my 
soul,  we'll  both  seek  compensation  for  old  slavery." 

He  was  coming  gayly  towards  her,  when,  in  an  instant,  she 
caught  the  knife  up  from  the  table,  and  started  one  pace  back. 

"  Stand  still  !  "  she  said,  "  or  I  shall  murder  you  !  " 

The  sudden  change  in  her,  the,  towering  fury  and  intense 
abhorrence  sparkling  in  her  eyes  and  lighting  up  her  brow, 
made  him  stop  as  if  a  fire  had  stopped  him. 

"  Stand  still !  "  she  said,  "  come  no  nearer  me,  upon  your 
life  ! " 

They  both  stood  looking  at  each  other.  Rage  and  astonish- 
ment were  in  his  face,  but  he  controlled  them,  and  said  lightly, 

"  Come,  come  !  Tush,  we  are  alone,  and  out  of  everybody's 
sight  and  hearing.  Do  you  think  to  frighten  me  with  these 
tricks  of  virtue  >  " 

"  Do  you  think  to  frighten  wr," she  answered  fiercely,  "from 
any  purpose  that  I  have,  and  any  course  I  am  resolved  upon, 
by  reminding  me  of  the  solitude  of  this  place,  and  there  being 
no  help  near  ?  Me,  who  am  here  alone,  designedly  ?  If  I 
> feared  you,  should  I  not  have  avoided  you.?  If  I  feared  you, 
should  I  be  here,  in  the  dead  of  night,  telling  you  to  your  face 
what  I  am  going  to  tell  ?  " 

"And  what  is  that,"  he  said,  "  you  handsome  shrew? 
Handsomer  so,  than  any  other  woman  in  her  best  humor  ? " 

"  I  tell  you  nothing,"  she  returned,  "  until  you  go  back  to 
that  chair — except  this,  once  again — Don't  come  near  me  !  Not 
a  step  nearer.  I  tell  you,  if  you  do,  as  Pleaven  sees  us,  I  shalj 
murder  you  !  " 


Tlir.  FUGITFVF.S.  723 

"  Do  you  mistake  me  for  your  husband?  "  he  retorted,  with 
a  grin. 

Disdaining  to  reply,  she  stretched  her  arm  out,  pointing  to 
the  chair.  lie  bit  his  hp,  frowned,  laughed,  and  sat  down  in  it, 
with  a  baffled,  irresolute,  impatient  air  he  was  unable  to  con- 
ceal ;  and  biting  his  nails  nervously,  and  looking  at  her  sideways, 
with  bitter  discomfiture,  even  while  he  feigned  to  be  amused  by 
her  caprice. 

She  put  the  knife  down  upon  the  table,  and  touching  her 
bosom  with  her  hand,  said  : 

"  I  have  something  lying  here  that  is  no  love  trinket  and 
sooner  than  endure  your  touch  once  more,  I  would  use  it  on 
you — and  you  know  it,  while  I  speak— with  less  reluctance 
than  I  would  on  any  other  creeping  thing  that  lives." 

He  affected  to  laugh  jestingly,  and  entreated  her  to  act  her 
play  out  quickly,  for  the  supper  was  growing  cold.  But  the 
secret  look  with  which  he  regarded  her  was  more  sullen,  and  he 
struck  his  foot  once  upon  the  floor  with  a  muttered  oath. 

"  How  many  times,"  said  Edith,  bending  her  darkest  glance 
upon  him,  "  has  your  bold  knavery  assailed  me  with  outrage 
and  insult  ?  How  many  times  in  your  smooth  manner,  and 
mocking  words  and  looks,  have  I  be'en  twitted  with  my  court- 
ship and  my  marriage  ?  How  many  times  have  you  laid  bare 
my  wound  of  love  for  that  sweet,  injured  girl,  and  lacerated  it  ? 
How  often  have  you  fanned  the  fire  on  which,  for  two  years,  I 
have  writhed  ;  and  tempted  me  to  take  a  desperate  revenge, 
when  it  has  most  tortured  me  ?  " 

"I  have  no  doubt,  Ma'am,"  he  replied,  "that  you  have 
kept  a  good  account,  and  that  it's  pretty  accurate.  Come, 
Edith.     To  your  husband,  poor  wretch,  this  was  well  enough — " 

"  Why,  if,"  she  said,  surveying  him  with  a  haughty  contempt 
and  disgust,  that  he  shrunk  under,  let  him  brave  it  as  he  would, 
"  if  all  my  other  reasons  for  despising  him  could  have  been 
blown  away  like  feathers,  his  having  you  for  his  counsellor  and 
favorite,  would  have  almost  been  enough  to  hold  their  place." 

"  Is  that  a  reason  why  you  have  run  away  with  me  .-•  "  he 
asked  her,  tauntingly. 

"  Yes,  and  why  we  are  face  to  face  for  the  last  time.  Wretch  ! 
W^e  meet  to-niglu,  and  part  to-night.  For  not  one  moment 
after  I  have  ceased  to  speak,  will  I  stay  here  !  " 

He  turned  upon  her  with  his  ugliest  look,  and  griped  the 
table  with  his  hand  ;  but  neither  rose,  nor  other\\ise  answered 
or  threatened  her. 

"  I  am  a  woman,"   she  said,  confront  ir.g  him   steadfastly, 


7^4  DOM  BE  Y  AND  SOX. 

'■'  who  from  her  very  childhood  has  been  shamed  and  steeled. 
1  ha^  ebeen  olTered  and  rejected,  put  up  and  appraised,  until  my 
very  soul  has  sickened.  I  have  not  had  an  accomplishment  of 
grace  that  might  have  been  a  resource  to  me,  but  it  has  been 
paraded  and  vended  to  enhance  my  value,  as  if  tlie  common 
crier  had  called  it  through  the  streets.  My  poor,  proud  friends, 
have  looked  on  and  approved  ;  and  every  tic  between  us  has 
been  deadened  in  my  breast.  There  is  not  one  of  them  for 
whom  I  care,  as  I  could  care  for  a  pet-dog.  I  stand  alone  in 
the  world,  remembering  well  what  a  hollow  world  it  has  been 
to  me,  and  what  a  hollow  part  of  it  I  have  been  myself.  You 
know  this,  and  you  know  that  my  fame  with  it  is  worthless  to 
me." 

"  Yes  ;  I  imagined  that,"  he  said. 

"  And  calculated  on  it,"  she  rejoined,  "  and  so  pursued  me. 
Grown  too  indifferent  for  any  opposition  but  indifference,  to 
the  daily  working  of  the  hands  that  had  moulded  me  to  this; 
and  knowing  that  my  marriage  would  at  least  prevent  their 
hawking  of  me  up  and  down  ;  I  suffered  myself  to  be  sold  as 
infamously  as  any  woman  with  a  halter  round  her  neck  is  sold 
in  any  market-place.     You  know  that." 

"Yes,"  he  said,  showing  all  his  teeth.     "  I  know  that." 

"  And  calculated  on  it,"  she  rejoined  once  more,  "  and  so 
pursued  me.  From  my  marriage  day,  I  found  myself  exposed 
to  such  new  shame — to  such  solicitation  and  pursuit  (expressed 
as  clearly  as  if  it  had  been  written  in  tiie  coarsest  words,  and 
thrust  into  my  hand  at  every  turn)  from  one  mean  villain,  that 
I  felt  as  if  I  had  never  known  humiliation  till  that  time.  This 
shame  my  husband  fixed  upon  me  ;  hemmed  me  round  with, 
himself ;  steeped  me  in,  with  his  own  hands,  of  his  own  act, 
repeated  hundreds  of  times.  And  thus— forced  by  the  two 
from  every  point  of  rest  I  had — forced  by  the  two  to  yield  up 
the  last  retreat  of  love  and  gentleness  within  me,  or  to  be  a 
new  misfortune  on  its  iimocent  object — driven  from  each  to 
each,  and  beset  by  one  when  I  escaped  the  other — my  anger 
rose  almost  to  distraction  against  both.  I  do  not  know  against 
which  it  rose  higher — the  master  or  the   man  !  " 

He  watched  hr.r  closely,  as  she  stood  before  him  in  the 
very  triumph  of  her  indignant  beauty.  She  was  resolute,  he 
saw  ;  undauntable  ;  with  no  more  fear  of  him  than  of  a  worm. 

"What  should  I  say  of  honor  or  of  chastity  to  you  !  "  she 
went  on.  "What  meaning  would  it  have  to  you;  what  mean- 
ing would  it  have  from  me.  But  if  I  tell  you  that  the  lightest 
touch  of  your  hand  makes  my  blood  cold  with  antipathy  ;  that 


THE  FUGITIVES.  73] 

from  the  hour  when  I  first  saw  and  hated  you,  to  now,  when 
my  instinctive  repu:j;nance  is  enhanced  by  every  minute's 
knowledge  of  you  I  have  since  had,  you  have  been  a  loatlisome 
creature  to  me  which  has  not  its  Hke  on  earth  ;  how  then  ?  " 

I  [e  answered,  witli  a  faint  laugli,  "  Ay !  How  then,  my 
queen  ?  " 

"  On  that  night,  when,  emboldened  by  the  scene  you  had 
assisted  at,  you  dared  come  to  my  room  and  speak  to  me,"  she 
said,  "  what  passed  ?  " 

He  slirugged  his  shoulders,  and  laughed  again. 

"  What  passed  ?  "  she  said. 

**  Your  memory  is  so  distinct,"  he  returned,  "  that  I  have 
no  doubt  you  can  recall  it." 

"I  can,"  she  said.  "Hear  it.  Proposing  then,  this  flight 
— not  this  flight,  but  the  flight  you  thought  it — you  told  me 
that  in  the  havmg  given  you  that  meeting,  and  leaving  you  to 
be  discovered  there,  if  you  so  thought  fit ;  and  in  the  having 
suffered  you  to  be  alone  with  me  many  times  before, — and  hav- 
ing made  the  opportunities,  you  said, — and  in  the  having  openly 
avowed  to  you  that  I  had  no  feeling  for  my  husband  but  aver- 
sion, and  no  care  for  myself — I  was  lost ;  I  had  given  you  the 
power  to  traduce  my  name  ;  and  I  lived,  in  virtuous  reputation, 
at  the  pleasure  of  your  breath." 

"All  stratagems  in  love — "  he  interrupted,  smiling.  "The 
old  adage — " 

"  On  that  night,"  said  Edith,  "  and  then  the  struggle  that  I 
long  had  had  with  something  that  was  not  respect  for  my  good 
fame — that  was  I  know  not  what — perhaps  the  clinging  to  that 
last  retreat — was  ended.  On  that  night,  and  then,  I  turned 
from  everything  but  passion  and  resentment.  I  struck  a  blow 
that  laid  your  lofty  master  in  the  dust,  and  set  you  there,  be- 
fore me,  looking  at  me  now,  and  knowing  what  I  mean." 

He  sprung  up  from  his  chair  with  a  great  oath.  She  put 
her  hand  into  her  bosom,  and  not  a  finger  trembled,  not  a  hair 
upon  her  head  was  stirred.  He  stood  still  :  she  too  :  the  table 
and  chair  between  them. 

"  When  I  forget  that  this  man  put  his  lips  to  mine  that 
night,  and  held  me  in  his  arms  as  he  has  done  again  to-night," 
said  Edith,  pointing  at  him  ;  "when  I  forget  the  taint  of  his  kiss 
upon  my  cheek — the  cheek  that  Elorence  would  have  laid  her 
guiltless  face  against — when  I  forget  my  meeting  with  her, 
while  that  taint  was  hot  upon  me,  and  in  what  a  flood  the 
knowledge  rushed  upon  me  when  1  saw  her,  that  in  releasing 
her  from  the  persecution  I  had  caused  by  my  love,  I  brought  a 


^26  PUMBKY  AND  SOK\ 

shame  and  degradation  on  her  name  through  mine,  and  in  all 
time  to  come  should  be  the  solitary  figure  representing  in  her 
mind  her  first  avoidance  of  a  guilty  creature — then,  Husband, 
from  whom  I  stand  divorced  henceforth,  I  will  forget  these  last 
two  years,  and  undo  what  I  have  done,  and  undeceive  you  !  " 

Her  Hashing  ejes,  uplifted  for  a  moment,  lighted  again  on 
Carker,  and  she  held  some  letters  out  in  her  left  hand. 

"  See  these  !  "  she  said,  contemptuously.  "  You  have  ad- 
dressed these  to  me  in  the  false  name  you  go  by :  one  here, 
some  elsewhere  on  my  road.  The  seals  are  unbroken.  Take 
them  back  !  " 

She  crunched  them  in  her  hand,  and  tossed  them  to  his 
feet.  And  as  she  looked  upon  him  now,  a  smile  was  on  her 
face. 

"We  meet  and  part  to-night,"  she  said.  "  You  have  fallen 
on  Sicilian  days  and  sensual  rest,  too  soon.  You  might  have 
cajoled,  and  fawned,  and  played  your  traitor's  part,  a  little  lon- 
ger, and  grown  richer.  You  purchase  your  voluptuous  retire- 
ment dear  !  " 

"  Edith  !  "  he  retorted,  menacing  her  with  his  hand.  "  Sit 
doM'n  !     Have  done  with  this  !      What  devil  possesses  you  ?  " 

"Their  name  is  Legion,"  she  replied,  uprearing  her  proud 
form  as  if  she  would  have  crushed  him  ;  "you  and  your  mas- 
ter have  raised  them  in  a  fruitful  house,  and  they  shall  tear 
you  both.  False  to  him,  false  to  his  innocent  child,  false  every 
way  and  everywhere,  go  forth  and  boast  of  me,  and  gnash  your 
teeth  for  once  to  know  that  you  are  lying  !  " 

He  stood  before  her  muttering  and  menacing,  and  scowling 
round  as  if  for  something  that  would  lielp  him  to  conquer  her; 
but  with  the  same  indomitable  spirit  she  opposed  him,  without 
faltering. 

"In  every  vaunt  you  make,"  she  said,  "  I  have  my  triumph. 
1  single  out  in  you  the  meanest  man  1  know,  the  parasite  and 
tool  of  the  proud  tyrant,  that  his  wound  may  go  the  deeper  and 
may  rankle  mure.  IJoast,  and  revenge  me  on  him  !  Y'ou 
know  how  you  came  here  to-night;  you  know  how  you  stand 
cowering  there  ;  you  see  yourself  in  colors  quite  as  despicable, 
if  not  as  odious,  as  those  in  which  I  see  you.  Boast  then,  and 
revenge  me  on  yourself." 

The  foam  was  on  his  lips;  the  wet  stood  on  his  forehead. 
If  she  would  have  faltered  once  for  only  one  half-moment,  he 
would  have  pinioned  her;  but  she  was  as  firm  as  rock,  and  her 
searching  eyes  never  left  him. 


THE  FUGiriVES. 


727 


"We  don't  part  so,"  he  said.  "  Do  you  tliink  1  am  drivel- 
ling, to  let  you  go  in  your  mad  temper  ?  " 

"  Do  you  think,"  slie  answered,  "  that  I  am  to  be  stayed  ?" 

"  I'll  try,  my  dear,"  he  said  with  a  ferocious  gesture  of  his 
head. 

"  (lod's  mercy  on  you,  if  you  try  by  coming  near  me !  "  she 
replied. 

"  And  what,"  he  said,  "  if  there  are  none  of  these  same  boasts 
and  vaunts  on  my  part  ?  What  if  1  were  to  turn  too  "i  Come  !  " 
and  his  teeth  fairly  shone  again.  "  We  must  make  a  treaty  of 
this,  or  /  may  take  some  unexpected  course.  Sit  down,  sit 
down  !  " 

"  Too  late  !  "  she  cried,  with  eyes  that  seemed  to  sparkle 
fire.  "  I  have  thrown  my  fame  and  good  name  to  the  winds  ! 
I  have  resolved  to  bear  the  shame  that  will  attach  to  mc 
— resolved  to  know  that  it  attaches  falsely — that  you  know  it 
too— antl  that  he  does  not,  never  can,  and  never  shall.  I'll  die, 
and  make  no  sign.  For  this  I  am  here  alone  with  you,  at  the 
dead  of  night.  For  this  I  have  met  you  here,  in  a  false  name, 
as  your  wife.  For  this,  I  have  been  seen  here  by  those  men, 
and  left  here.     Nothing  can  save  you  now." 

He  would  have  sold  his  soul  to  root  her,  in  her  beauty,  to 
the  floor,  and  make  her  arms  drop  at  her  sides,  and  have  her 
at  his  mercy.  But  he  could  not  look  at  her,  and  not  be  afraid 
of  her.  He  saw  a  strength  within  her  that  was  resistless.  He 
saw  that  she  was  desperate,  and  that  her  unquenchable  hatred 
of  him  would  stop  at  nothing.  His  eyes  followed  the  hand  that 
was  put  with  such  rugged  uncongenial  purpose  into  her  white 
bosom,  and  he  thought  that  if  it  struck  at  him,  and  failed,  it 
would  strike  there,  just  as  soon. 

He  did  not  venture,  therefore,  to  advance  towards  licr :  but 
the  door  by  which  he  had  entered  was  behind  him,  and  he 
stepped  back  to  lock  it. 

"  Lastly,  take  my  warning  !  Look  to  yourself  !  "  she  said, 
and  smiled  again.  "  You  have  been  betrayed,  as  all  betrayers 
are.  It  has  been  made  known  that  you  are  in  this  place,  or  were 
to  be,  or  have  been.  If  I  live,  I  saw  my  husband  in  a  carriage 
in  the  street  to-night?  " 

"  Strumpet,  it's  false  !  "  cried  Carkcr. 

At  the  moment,  the  bell  rang  loudly  in  the  hall.  He  turned 
white,  as  she  held  her  hand  up  like  an  enchantress,  at  whose 
invocation  the  sound  had  come. 

"  Hark  !  do  you  hear  it  ?  " 

He  set  his  back  against  the   door  ;  for  he  saw  a  change  in 


72S  DOMBEY  AXD  SON: 

her,  and  funcied  she  was  coming  on  to  pass  him.  Rut,  in  a 
moment,  she  was  gone  through  the  opposite  doors  communica- 
ting with  tlie  bed-chamber,  and  they  shut  upon  her. 

Once  turned,  once  changed  in  her  inflexible  unyielding 
look,  he  felt  that  he  could  cope  with  her.  lie  thought  a  sudden 
terror,  occasioned  by  this  night-alarm,  had  subdued  her  ;  not  the 
less  readily,  for  her  overwrought  condition.  Throwing  open  the 
doors,  he  followed,  almost  instantly. 

But  the  room  was  dark  ;  and  as  she  made  no  answer  to  his 
call,  he  was  fain  to  go  back  for  the  lamp.  He  held  it  up,  and 
looked  round  everywhere,  expecting  to  see  her  crouching  in 
some  corner  ;  but  the  room  was  empty.  So,  into  the  drawing- 
room  and  dining-room  he  went,  in  succession,  with  the  uncer- 
tain steps  of  a  man  in  a  strange  place  ;  looking  fearfully  about, 
and  prying  behind  screens  and  couches  ;  but  she  was  not  there. 
No,  nor  in  the  hall,  which  was  so  bare  that  he  could  see  that, 
at  a  glance. 

All  this  time,  the  ringing  at  the  bell  was  constantly  renewed 
and  those  without  were  beating  at  the  door.  He  put  his  lamp 
down  at  a  distance,  and  going  near  it,  listened.  There  were 
several  voices  talking  together:  at  least  two  of  them  in  Eng- 
lish ;  and  though  the  door  was  thick,  and  there  was  great  con- 
fusion, he  knew  one  of  these  too  well  to  doubt  whose  voice  it 
was. 

He  took  up  his  lamp  again,  and  came  back  quickly  through 
all  the  rooms,  stopping  as  he  quitted  each,  and  looking  round 
for  her,  with  the  light  raised  above  his  head.  He  was  standing 
thus  in  the  bed-chamber,  when  the  door  leading  to  the  little 
passage  in  the  wall,  caught  his  eye.  He  went  to  it,  and  found 
it  fastened  on  the  other  side  ;  but  she  had  dropped  a  veil  in 
going  through,  and  shut  it  in  the  door. 

All  this  time  the  people  on  the  stairs  were  ringing  at  the 
bell,  and  knocking  with  their  hands  and  feet. 

He  was  not  a  coward  :  but  these  sounds;  what  had  gone 
before  ;  the  strangeness  of  the  place,  which  had  confused  him, 
even  in  his  return  from  the  hall;  the  frustration  of  his  schemes 
for,  strange  to  say,  he  would  have  been  much  bolder,  if  they  had 
(succeeded)  ;  the  unseasonable  time;  the  recollection  of  having 
no  one  near  to  whom  he  could  appeal  for  any  friendly  office ; 
above  all,  the  sudden  sense,  which  made  even  his  heart  beat 
like  lead,  that  the  man  whose  confidence  he  had  outraged,  and 
whom  he  had  so  treacherously  deceived,  was  there  to  recognize 
and  chftllenge  him  with  his  mask  plucked  oil  his  face  ;  st'-nck  a 
jianig  through  hin>      He  tried  the  dour  in  which  the  veil  wa§ 


non   THE  GK/XDKk'  LOS/:S  y//.9  PLACE.  729 

shut,  but  couldn't  force  it.  He  opened  one  of  the  windows, 
and  looked  down  through  the  lattice  of  the  blind  into  the 
court-yard  ;  but  it  was  a  high  leap,  and  the  stones  were  piti- 
less. 

The  ringing  and  knocking  still  continuing — his  panic  too — 
he  went  back  to  the  door  in  the  bed-chamber,  and  with  .some 
new  efforts,  each  more  stubborn  than  the  last,  wrenched  it  open. 
Seeing  the  little  staircase  not  far  off,  and  feeling  the  night  air 
coming  up,  he  stole  back  for  his  hat  and  coat,  made  the  door 
as  secure  after  him  as  he  could,  crept  down  lamp  in  hand,  ex- 
tinguished it  on  seeing  the  street,  and  having  put  it  in  a  corner, 
went  out  where  the  stars  were  shining. 


CHAPTER.  LV. 

ROB  THE  GRINDER  LOSES  HIS  PLACE. 

The  porter  at  the  iron  gate  which  shut  the  court-yard  from 
the  street,  had  left  the  little  wicket  of  his  house  open,  and  was 
gone  away  ;  no  doubt  to  mingle  in  the  distant  noise  at  the  door 
of  the  great  staircase.  Lifting  the  latch  softly,  Carker  crept 
out,  and  shutting  the  jangling  gate  after  him  with  as  little  noise 
as  possible,  hurried  off. 

In  the  fever  of  his  mortification  and  unavailing  rage,  the 
panic  that  had  seized  upon  him  mastered  him  completely.  It 
rose  to  such  a  height  that  he  would  have  blindly  encountered 
almost  any  risk,  rather  than  meet  the  man  of  whom,  two  hours 
ago,  he  had  been  utterly  regardless.  His  fierce  arrival,  which 
he  had  never  expected  ;  the  sound  of  his  voice;  there  having 
been  so  near  a  meeting,  face  to  face,  he  would  have  braved  out 
this,  after  the  first  momentary  shock  of  alarm,  and  would  have 
put  as  bold  a  front  upon  his  guilt  as  any  villain.  But  the  spring- 
ing of  his  mine  upon  himself,  .seemed  to  have  rent  and  shivered 
all  his  hardihood  and  self-reliance.  Spurned  like  any  reptile  ; 
entrai:)ped  and  mocked  ;  turned  upon,  and  trodden  down  by  the 
proud  woman  whose  mind  he  had  slowly  poisoned,  as  he  thought 
until  she  had  sunk  into  the  mere  creature  of  his  pleasure  ;  un- 
deceived in  his  deceit,  and  with  his  fox's  hide  stripped  off,  he 
sneaked  away,  abashed,  degraded,  and  afraid. 

Some  other  terror  came  upon  him  quite  ren.oved  from  this 
of  being  pursued,  suddenly,  like  an  electric  shock,  as  he  was 


^36  DOM  BEY  AND  SOJ^ 

creeping  through  the  streets.  Some  visionary  terror,  unintel- 
ligible and  inexplicable,  associated  with  a  trembling  of  the 
ground, — a  rush  and  sweep  of  something  through  the  air,  hke 
Death  upon  the  wing.  He  shrunk,  as  if  to  let  the  tiling  go  by. 
It  was  not  gone,  it  never  had  been  there,  yet  what  a  startling 
horror  it  had  left  behind. 

He  raised  his  wicked  face,  so  full  of  trouble,  to  the  night 
sky,  wiiere  the  stars,  so  full  of  peace,  were  sinning  on  him  as 
they  had  been  when  he  first  stole  out  into  the  air ;  and  stopped 
to  think  what  he  should  do.  The  dread  of  being  hunted  in  a 
strange  remote  place,  where  the  laws  might  not  protect  him — 
the  novelty  of  the  feeling  that  it  was  strange  and  remote,  origi- 
nating in  its  being  left  alone  so  suddenly  amid  the  ruins  of  his 
plans — his  greater  dread  of  seeking  refuge  now,  in  Italy  or  in 
Sicily,  where  men  might  be  hired  to  assassinate  him,  he  thought 
at  any  dark  street  corner — the  waywardness  of  guilt  and  fear — 
perhaps  some  sympathy  of  action  with  the  turning  back  of 
all  his  schemes — impelled  him  to  turn  back  too,  and  go  to  Eng- 
land. 

"  I  am  safer  there,  in  any  case.  If  I  should  not  decide," 
he  thought,  "  to  give  this  fool  a  meeting,  I  am  less  likely  to  be 
traced  there,  than  abroad  here,  now.  And  if  1  should  (this 
cursed  fit  being  over),  at  least  1  shall  not  be  alone,  without  a 
soul  to  speak  to,  or  advise  with,  or  stand  by  me.  I  shall  not 
be  run  in  upon  and  worried  like  a  rat." 

He  muttered  Edith's  name,  and  clenched  his  hand.  As  he 
crept  along,  in  the  shadow  of  the  massive  buildings,  he  set  his 
teeth,  and  muttered  dreadful  imprecations  on  her  head,  and 
looked  from  side  to  side,  as  if  in  search  of  her.  Thus,  he  stole 
on  to  the  gate  of  an  inn-yard.  The  people  were  a-bed  ;  but  his 
ringing  at  the  bell  soon  produced  a  man  with  a  lantern,  in  com- 
pany with  whom  he  was  presently  in  a  dim  coach-house,  bar- 
gaining for  the  hire  of  an  old  phaeton,  to  Paris. 

The  bargain  was  a  short  one  ; -and  the  horses  were  soon 
sent  for.  Leaving  word  that  the  carriage  was  to  follow  him 
when  they  came,  he  stole  away  again,  beyond  the  town,  past 
the  old  ramparts,  out  on  the  open  road,  which  seemed  to  glitle 
away  along  the  dark  plain,  like  a  stream. 

Whither  did  it  flow  ?  What  was  the  end  of  it  ?  As  he 
paused,  with  some  such  suggestion  within  him,  looking  over  the 
gloomy  flat  where  the  slender  trees  marked  out  the  way,  again 
that  flight  of  Death  came  rushing  up,  again  went  on,  impetuous 
and  resistless,  again  was  nothing  but  a  horror  in  his  mind,  dark 
as  the  scene  and  undefined  as  its  remotest  verge. 


h'O/i   THE  GRINDER  LOSES  HIS  PLACE.  731 

There  was  no  wind  ;  there  was  no  passing  shadow  on  the 
deep  shade  of  the  night  ;  there  was  no  noise.  'l"he  city  lay 
behind  him,  Hghted  here  and  tliere,  and  starry  workls  were 
hidden  by  the  masonry  of  spire  and  roof  that  hardly  made  out 
any  shapes  against  the  sky.  Dark  and  lonely  distance  lay 
around  him  everywhere,  and  the  clocks  were  faintly  striking 
two.  , 

He  went  forward  for  what  appeared  a  long  time,  and  a  long 
way  ;  often  stopping  to  listen.  At  last  the  ringing  of  horses' 
bells  greeted  his  anxious  ears.  Now  softer,  and  now  louder, 
now  inaudible,  now  ringing  very  slowly  over  bad  ground,  now 
brisk  and  merry,  it  came  on  ;  until  with  a  loud  shouting  and 
lashing,  a  shadowy  postilion  muffled  to  the  eyes,  checked  his 
four  struggling  horses  at  his  side. 

"  Who  goes  there  ?     Monsieur  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Monsieur  has  walked  a  long  way  in  the  dark  midnight." 

"No  matter.  Every  one  to  his  taste.  Were  there  any 
horsed  ordered  at  the  Post-house  ?  " 

"  A  thousand  devils  ! — and  pardons  !  other  horses  ?  at  this 
hour?     No." 

"  Listen,  my  friend.  I  am  much  hurried.  Let  us  see  how 
fast  we  can  travel !  The  faster,  the  more  money  there  will  be 
to  drink.     Off  we  go  then  !     Quick  1 " 

"  Halloa  1  whoop  !  Halloa!  Hi!"  Away,  at  a  gallop,  over 
the  black  landscape,  scattering  the  dust  and  dirt  like  spray  ! 

The  clatter  and  commotion  echoed  to  the  hurry  and  dis- 
cordance of  the  fugitive's  ideas.  Nothing  clear  without,  and 
nothing  clear  within.  Objects  flitting  past,  merging  into  one 
another,  dimly  descried,  confusedly  lost  sight  of,  gone!  Be- 
yond the  changing  scraps  of  fence  and  cottage  immediately 
upon  the  road,  a  lowering  waste.  Beyond  the  shifting  images 
that  rose  up  in  his  mind  and  vanished  as  they  showed  them- 
selves, a  black  expanse  of  dread  and  rage  and  baffled  villainy 
Occasionally,  a  sigh  of  mountain  air  from  the  distant  Jura, 
fading  along  the  plain.  Sometimes  that  rush  which  was  so 
furious  and  horrible,  again  came  sweeping  through  his  fancy, 
passed  away,  and  left  a  chill  upon  his  blood. 

The  lamps,  gleaming  on  the  medley  of  horses'  lieads, 
jumbled  with  the  shadowy  driver,  and  the  fluttering  of  his  cloak, 
made  a  thousand  indistinct  shapes,  answering  to  his  thoughts. 
Shadows  of  familiar  people,  stooping  at  their  desks  and  books, 
in  their  remembered  attitudes ;  strange  apparitions  of  the  man 
whom  he  was  flying  from,  or  of  Kdith  ;  repetitions  in  the  ring- 


732  DOM  BE  Y  AND  SOiV 

ing  of  bells  and  rolling  wheels,  of  words  that  had  been  spokct< 
confusions  of  time  and  place,  making  last  night  a  month  ago,  a 
month  ago  last  night — home  now  distant  beyond  hope,  now  in- 
stantly accessible  ;  commotion,  discord,  hurry,  darkness,  and 
confusion  in  his  mind,  and  all  around  him. — Hallo!  Hi!  away 
at  a  gallop  over  the  black  landscape  ;  dust  and  dirt  flying  like 
spray,  the  smoking  horses  snorting  and  plunging  as  if  each  ot 
them  were  ridden  by  a  demon,  away  in  a  frantic  triumph  on  the 
dark  road — whither  ! 

Again  the  nameless  shock  comes  speeding  up,  and  as  it 
passes,  the  bells  ring  in  his  ears  "whither  ?  "  The  wheels  roar 
in  his  ears  "whither?"  All  the  noise  and  rattle  shapes  itself 
into  that  cr}\  The  lights  and  shadows  dance  upon  the  horses' 
heads  like  imps.  No  stopping  now,  no  slacking  !  On,  on ! 
Away  with  him  upon  the  dark  road  wildly  ! 

He  could  not  think  to  any  purpose.  He  could  not  separate 
one  subject  of  reflection  from  another,  sufficiently  to  dwell 
upon  it,  by  itself,  for  a  minute  at  a  time.  The  crash  of  his  pro- 
ject for  the  gaining  of  a  voluptuous  compensation  for  past  re- 
straint ;  the  overthrow  of  his  treachery  to  one  who  had  been 
true  and  generous  to  him,  but  whose  least  proud  word  and  look 
he  had  treasured  up,  at  interest,  for  years — for  false  and  subtle 
men  will  always  secretly  despise  and  dislike  the  object  upon 
which  they  fawn,  and  always  resent  the  payment  and  receipt  of 
homage  that  they  know  to  be  worthless;  these  were  the  themes 
uppermost  in  his  mind.  A  lurking  rage  against  the  woman  who 
had  so  entrapped  him  and  avenged  herself  was  always  there ; 
crude  and  mishapen  schemes  of  retaliation  upon  her,  floated  in 
his  brain  ;  but  nothing  was  distinct.  A  hwxry  and  contradic- 
tion pervaded  all  his  thoughts.  Even  while  he  was  so  busy 
with  this  fevered,  inefTectual  thinking,  his  one  constant  idea 
was,  that  he  would  postpone  reflection  until  some  indefinite 
time. 

Then,  the  old  days  before  the  second  marriage  rose  up  in 
his  remembrance.  He  thought  how  jealous  he  had  been  of  the 
boy,  liow  jealous  he  had  been  of  the  girl,  how  artfully  he  had 
kept  intruders  at  a  distance,  and  drawn  a  circle  round  his  dupe 
that  none  but  himself  should  cross  ;  and  then  he  thought,  had 
he  done  all  this  to  be  flying  now,  like  a  scared  thief,  from  only 
the  poor  dupe  ? 

He  could  have  laid  hands  upon  himself  for  his  cowardice, 
but  it  was  the  ver)'  shadow  of  his  defeat,  and  could  not  be 
separated  from  it.  To  have  his  conlidence  in  his  own  knavery 
so  shattered  at  a  blow — to  be  within  his  own  knowledge  such  a 


KOD  Till-:  CRiXDER  LOSES  HIS  PLACE  733 

miserable  tool — was  like  being  paralyzed.  With  an  impotent 
ferocity  he  raged  at  Edith,  and  hated  Mr.  Dombey  and  hated 
himself,  but  slill  he  fled,  and  could  do  notiiing  else. 

Again  and  again  he  listened  for  the  sound  of  wheels  behind. 
Again  and  again  his  fancy  heard  it,  coming  on  louder  and 
louder.  At  last  he  was  so  persuaded  of  this,  that  he  cried  out, 
"  Stop  ! "  preferring  even  the  loss  of  ground  to  such  uncer- 
tainty. 

The  word  soon  brought  carriage,  horses,  driver,  all  in  a 
heap  together,  across  the  road. 

"  The  devil !  "  cried  the  driver,  looking  over  his  shoulder, 
**  what's  the  matter  ! " 

"  Hark !     What's  that  ? " 
"What?" 
"  That  noise." 

"  Ah  Heaven,  be  quiet,  cursed  brigand  !  "  to  a  horse  who 
shook  his  bells.     "  What  noise  ?  " 

"Behind.  Is  it  not  another  carriage  at  a  gallop  ?  There! 
what's  that  ? " 

"  Miscreant    with  a  pig's    head,  stand    still !  "  to    another 
horse,  who  bit  another,  who   frightened   the    other  two,  who 
plunged  and  backed.     "  There  is  nothing  coming." 
"  Nothing." 

"  No,  nothing  but  the  day  yonder." 

"  You  are  right,  I  think.  I  hear  nothing  now,  indeed.  Go 
on  !  " 

The  entangled  equipage,  half  hidden  in  the  reeking  cloud 
from  the  horses,  goes  on  slowly  at  first,  for  the  driver,  checked 
unnecessarily  in  his  progress,  sulkily  takes  out  a  pocket  knife, 
and  puts  a  new  lash  to  his  whip.  Then  "  Hallo,  whoop  !  I  lallo, 
hi !  "     Away  once  more,  savagely. 

And  now  the  stars  faded,  and  the  day  glimmered,  and 
standing  in  the  carriage,  looking  back,  he  could  discern  the 
track  by  which  he  had  come,  and  see  that  there  was  no  travel- 
ler within  view,  on  all  the  heavy  expanse.  And  soon  it  was 
broad  day,  and  the  sun  began  to  shine  on  corn-fields  and  vine- 
yard ;  and  solitary  laborers,  risen  from  little  temporary  huts 
by  heaps  of  stones  upon  the  road,  were,  here  and  there,  at 
work  repairing  the  highway,  or  eating  bread.  P.y  and  by,  there 
were  peasants  going  to  the'ir  daily  labor,  or  to  market,  or  loung- 
ing at  the  doors  of  poor  cottages,  gazing  idly  at  him  as  he 
passed.  And  then  there  was  a  post-yard,  ankle-deep  in  mud, 
with  steaming  dunghills  and  vast  outhouses  half  ruined ;  and 
looking  on  thi.s  dainty  prospect,  an  immense,  old,  shadcK'SS^ 


734 


DOMHEY  AXD  SOX. 


glaring,  stone  chateau,  with  half  its  windows  blinded,  and  green 
damp  crawling  lazily  over  it,  from  the  balustraded  terrace  to 
the  taper  tips  of  the  extinguishers  upon  the  turrets. 

Gathered  up  moodily  in  a  corner  of  the  carriage,  and  only 
intent  on  going  fast — except  when  he  stood  up,  for  a  mile  to- 
gether, and  looked  back  ;  which  he  would  do  whenever  there  was 
a  piece  of  open  country — he  went  on,  still  postponmg  thought 
indefinitely,  and  still  always  tormented  with  thinking  to  no  pur- 
pose. 

Shame,  disappointment,  and  discomfiture  gnawed  at  his 
heart ;  a  constant  apprehension  of  being  overtaken,  or  met — 
for  he  was  groundlessly  afraid  even  of  travellers,  who  came 
towards  him  by  the  way  he  was  going — oppressed  him  heavily. 
The  same  intolerable  awe  and  dread  that  had  come  upon  him 
in  the  night,  returned  unweakened  in  the  day.  The  monot- 
onous ringing  of  the  bells  and  tramping  of  the  horses ;  the  mo- 
notony of  his  anxiety,  and  useless  rage  ;  the  monotonous  wheel 
of  fear,  regret,  and  passion,  he  kept  turning  round  and  round; 
made  the  journey  like  a  vision,  in  which  nothing  was  quite  real 
'but  his  own  torment. 

It  was  a  vision  of  long  roads  ;  that  stretched  away  to  an 
horizon,  always  receding  and  never  gained  ;  of  ill-paved  towns, 
up  hill  and  down,  where  faces  came  to  dark  doors  and  ill-glazed 
windows,  and  where  rows  of  mud-bespattered  cows  and  oxen 
•were  tied  up  for  sale  in  the  long  narrow  streets,  butting  and 
lowing,  and  receiving  blows  on  their  blunt  heads  from  blud- 
geons that  might  have  beaten  them  in  ;  of  bridges,  crosses, 
churches,  postyards,  new  horses  being  put  in  against  their  wills, 
and  the  horses  of  the  last  stage  reeking,  panting,  and  laying 
their  drooping  heads  together  dolefully  at  stable  doors  ;  of 
little  cemeteries  with  black  crosses  settled  sideways  in  the 
graves,  and  withered  wreaths  upon  them  droj^ping  away,  again 
of  long,  long  roads,  dragging  themsehes  out,  up  hill  and  down, 
to  the  treacherous  horizon. 

Of  morning,  noon,  and  sunset ;  night,  and  the  rising  of  an 
early  moon.  Of  long  roads  tcm]5orarily  left  behind,  and  a 
rough  pavement  reached  ;  of  battering  and  clattering  over  it, 
ancl  looking  up,  among  house-roofs,  at  a  great  church-tower; 
of  getting  out  and  eating  hastily,  and  drinking  draughts  of  wine 
that  had  no  cheering  influence  ;  of  coming  forth  afoot,  among 
a  host  of  beggars — blind  men  with  quivering  eyelids,  led  by  old 
women  holding  candles  to  their  faces  ;  idiot  girls  ;  the  lame, 
the  epile|)tic,  and  the  palsied — of  passing  through  the  clamor, 
and  looking  from  his  ?eat  at  the  upturned  countenances  and 


ROB  THE  GRINDER  LOSES  IKS  PLACE.  735 

OUtstretclied  hands,  with  a  Iiurrled  dreail  of  recognizing  some 

f)ursucr  pressing  forward — of  galloping  away  again,  upon  the 
ong,  long  road,  gathered  up,  dull  and  stunned,  in  his  corner, 
or  rising  to  see  wliere  the  moon  shone  faintly  on  a  patch  of  the 
same  endless  road  miles  away,  or  looking  back  to  see  who  fol- 
lowed. 

Of  never  sleeping,  but  sometimes  dozing  with  unclosed  eyes, 
and  springing  up  with  a  start,  and  a  reply  aloud  to  an  imagin- 
ary voice.  Of  cursing  himself  for  being  there,  for  having  fled, 
for  having  let  her  go,  for  not  Iiaving  confronted  and  defied  him. 
Of  having  a  deadly  quarrel  with  the  whole  world,  but  chiefly 
with  himself.  Of  blighting  everything  with  his  black  mood  as 
he  was  carried  on  and  away. 

It  was  a  fevered  vision  of  things  past  and  present  all  con- 
founded together;  of  his  life  and  journey  blended  into  one. 
Of  being  madly  hurried  somewhere,  whither  he  must  go.  Of 
old  scenes  starting  up  among  the  novelties  through  which  he 
travelled.  Of  musing  and  brooding  over  what  was  past  an  I 
distant,  and  seeming  to  take  no  notice  of  the  actual  objects  he 
encountered,  but  with  a  wearisome  exhausting  consciousness  of 
being  bewildered  by  them,  and  having  their  images  all  crowded 
in  his  hot  brain  after  they  were  gone. 

A  vision  of  change  upon  change,  and  still  the  same  monot- 
ony of  bells  and  wheels,  and  horses'  feet,  and  no  rest.  Of  town 
and  country,  postyards,  horses,  drivers,  hill  and  valley,  light 
and  darkness,  road  and  pavement,  height  and  hollow,  wet  wea- 
ther and  dry,  and  still  the  same  monotony  of  bells  and  wheels, 
and  horses'  feet,  and  no  rest.  A  vision  of  tending  on  at  last 
towards  the  distant  capital,  by  busier  roads,  and  sweeping 
round,  by  old  cathedrals,  and  dashing  through  small  towns  and 
villages,  less  thinly  scattered  on  the  road  than  formerly,  and 
sitting  shrouded  in  his  corner,  with  his  cloak  up  to  his  face,  as 
people  passing  by  looked  at  him. 

Of  rolling  on  and  on,  always  postponing  thought,  and  al- 
ways racked  with  thinking ;  of  being  unable  to  reckon  up  the 
hours  he  had  been  upon  the  road,  or  to  comprehend  the  points 
of  time  and  place  In  his  journey.  Of  being  parched  and  giddy, 
and  half  mad.  Of  pressing  on  in  spite  of  all,  as  if  lie  could 
not  stop,  and  coming  into  Paris,  where  the  turbid  river  held  its 
swift  course  undisturbed,  between  two  brawling  streams  of  life 
and  motion. 

A  troubled  vision,  then,  of  bridges,  quays,  interminable 
streets  ;  of  wine-shops,  water-carriers,  great  crowds  of  people, 
soldiers,  coaches,  military  drums,  arcades.     Of  the  monotony 


736  D  6MB  E  Y  A  XD  SO.V. 

of  bells  and  wheels  and  liorses'  feet  beinjj  at  length  lost  in  the 
luiiversal  din  and  uproar.  Of  the  gradual  subsidence  of  that 
noise  as  he  passed  out  in  another  carriage  by  a  different  bar- 
rier from  that  by  which  he  had  entered.  Of  the  restoration,  as 
he  travelled  on  towards  the  sea-coast,  of  the  monotony  of  bells 
and  wheels,  and  horses'  feet,  and  no  rest. 

(.){  sunset  once  again,  and  nightfall.  Of  long  roads  again, 
and  dead  of  night,  and  feeble  lights  in  windows  by  the  road- 
side ;  and  still  the  old  monotony  of  bells  and  wheels,  and 
horses'  feet,  and  no  rest.  Of  dawn,  and  daybreak,  and  the 
rising  of  the  sun.  Of  toiling  slowly  up  a  hill,  and  feeling  on 
its  top  the  fresh  sea-breeze  ;  and  seeing  the  morning  light  upon 
the  edges  of  the  distant  waves.  Of  coming  down  into  a  harbor 
when  the  tide  was  at  its  full,  and  seeing  fishing-boats  float  iji, 
and  glad  women  and  children  waiting  for  them.  Of  nets  and 
seamen's  clothes  spread  out  to  dry  upon  the  shore ;  of  busy 
sailors,  and  their  voices  high  among  ships'  masts  and  rigging, 
of  the  buoyancy  and  brightness  of  the  water,  and  the  universal 
sparkling. 

Of  receding  from  the  coast,  and  looking  back  upon  it  from 
the  deck  when  it  v/as  a  haze  upon  the  water,  with  here  and 
there  a  little  opening  of  bright  land  where  the  sun  struck.  Of 
ihe  swell,  and  flash,  and  murmur  of  the  calm  sea.  Of  another 
gray  line  on  the  ocean,  on  the  vessel's  track,  fast  growing 
clearer  and  higher.  Of  cliffs  and  buildings,  and  a  windmill, 
and  a  church,  becoming  more  and  more  visible  upon  it.  Of 
steaming  on  at  last  into  smooth  water,  and  mooring  to  a  pier 
Avhence  groups  of  people  looked  down,  greeting  friends  on 
board.  Of  disembarking,  passing  among  them  quickly,  shun- 
ning every  one  ;   and  of  being  at  last  again  in  England. 

He  had  thought,  in  his  dream,  of  going  down  into  a  remote 
country-place  he  knew,  and  lying  quiet  there,  while  he  secretly 
informed  himself  of  what  transpired,  and  determined  how  to 
act.  Still  in  the  same  stunned  condition,  he  remembered  a 
certain  station  on  the  railway,  where  he  would  have  to  branch 
off  to  his  place  of  destination,  and  where  there  was  a  quiet  Inn. 
Here,  he  indistinctly  resolved  to  tarry  and  rest. 

With  this  purpose  he  slunk  into  a  railway  carriage  as  quick- 
ly as  he  could,  and  lying  there  wrapped  in  his  cloak  as  if  he 
were  asleep,  was  soon  borne  far  away  from  the  sea,  and  deep 
into  the  island  green.  Arrived  at  his  destination  he  looked 
out,  and  surveyed  it  carefully.  He  was  not  mistaken  in  his  im- 
pression of  the  pi  ice.  It  was  a  retired  spot,  on  the  borders  of 
^,  little  wood,     Onlv   one  house,  newlv-built  (>r  altered  for  the 


fiOB  THE  GRL\'IM-:R  LOSkS  Jl/S  rLACk.  yj, 

purpose,  stood  there,  surrounded  by  its  neat  garden  ;  ihe  small 
town  that  was  nearest,  was  some  miles  away.  Here  lie  alighted 
then  ;  and  going  straight  into  the  tavern,  iinobscr\ccl  by  any 
one,  secured  two  rooms  up  stairs,  communicating  with  each 
otlier,  and  sufficiently  retired. 

His  object  was  to  rest,  and  recover  the  command  of  him-l 
self,  and  the  balance  of  his  mind.  Imbecile  discomfiture  and, 
rage — so  that,  as  he  walked  about  his  room,  lie  ground  his' 
teeth — had  complete  possession  of  him.  His  thoughts,  not  to 
be  stopped  or  directed,  still  wandered  where  they  would,  and 
dragged  him  after  them.  He  was  stupefied,  and  he  was  wearied 
to  death. 

But,  as  if  there  were  a  curse  upon  him  that  lie  should  never 
rest  again,  his  drowsy  scn.ses  would  not  lose  their  conscious- 
ness. He  had  no  more  influence  witii  them  in  this  regard,  than 
if_ they  had  been  another  man's.  It  was  not  that  they  forced 
him  to  take  note  of  present  sounds  and  objects,  but  that  they 
would  not  be  diverted  from  the  whole  hurried  vision  of  his 
journey.  It  was  constantly  before  him  all  at  once.  She  stood 
there,  with  her  dark  disdainful  eyes  again  upon  him  .  and  he 
was  riding  on,  nevertheless,  through  town  and  country,  light 
and  darkness,  wet  weatiier  and  dry,  over  road  and  pavement, 
hill  and  valley,  height  and  hollow,  jaded  and  scared  by  the  mo- 
notony of  bells,  and  wheels,  and  horses'  feet,  and  no  rest. 

"  What  day  is  this?  "  he  asked  of  the  waiter,  who  was  mak* 
ing  preparations  for  his  dinner. 

"Day,  Sir?" 

"  Is  it  Wednesday  ?  " 

"  Wednesday,  Sir  ?     No,  Sir.     Thursday,  Sir." 

"  I  forgot.     How  goes  the  time  ?     My  watch  is  unwound." 

"Wants  a  few  minutes  of  five  o'clock,  Sir.  Been  travelling 
a  long  time.  Sir,  perhaps  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  By  rail.  Sir  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Very  confusing.  Sir.  Not  much  in  the  habit  of  travelling 
by  rail  myself.  Sir,  but  gentlemen  frequently  say  so." 

"  Do  many  gentlemen  come  here  ?  " 

"  Pretty  well.  Sir,  in  general.  Nobody  here  at  present. 
Rather  slack  just  now.  Sir.     ICverythiiig  is  slack.  Sir." 

He  made  no  answer  ,  but  had  risen  into  a  sitting  posture 
on  tiie  sofa  wliere  he  had  been  lying,  and  leaned  forward  with 
an  arm  on  each  knee,  staring  at  the  ground.  He  could  not 
master  his  own   attention  for  a  minute   tojrether.     It   rikilied 


738  JK)MnKY  AXD  SOX. 

away  where  it  would,  but  it  never,  for  an  instant,  lost  itself  in 
sleep. 

He  drank  a  quantity  of  wine  after  dinner,  in  vain.  No 
such  artificial  means  would  bring  sleep  to  his  eyes.  His 
thoughts,  more  incoherent,  dragged  him  more  unmercifully 
after  them — as  if  a  wretch  condemned  to  such  expiation, 
were  drawn  at  the  heels  of  wild  horses.  No  oblivion,  and  no 
rest. 

How  long  he  sat,  drinking  and  brooding,  and  being  dragged 
in  imagination  hither  and  thither,  no  one  could  have  told  less 
correctly  than  he.  But  he  knew  that  he  had  been  sitting  a  long 
time  by  candle-light,  when  he  started  up  and  listened,  in  a  sud- 
den terror. 

For  now,  indeed,  it  was  no  fancy.  The  ground  shook,  the 
house  rattled,  the  fierce  impetuous  rush  was  in  the  air  !  He 
felt  it  come  up,  and  go  darting  by;  and  even  when  he  had  hur- 
ried to  the  window,  and  saw  what  it  was,  he  stood,  shrinking 
from  it,  as  if  it  were  not  safe  to  look. 

A  curse  upon  the  fiery  devil,  thundering  along  so  smoothly, 
tracked  through  the  distant  valley  by  a  glare  of  light  and  lurid 
smoke,  and  gone !  He  felt  as  if  he  had  been  plucked  out  of 
its  path,  and  saved  from  being  torn  asunder.  It  made  him 
shrink  and  shudder  even  now,  when  its  faintest  hum  was 
hushed,  and  when  the  lines  of  iron  road  he  could  trace  in  the 
moonlight,  running  to  a  point,  were  as  empty  and  silent  as  a 
desert. 

Unable  to  rest,  and  irresistibly  attracted — or  he  thought  so 
— to  this  road,  he  went  out  and  lounged  on  the  brink  of  it, 
marking  the  way  the  train  had  gone,  by  the  yet  smoking  cin- 
ders that  were  lying  in  its  track.  After  a  lounge  of  some  half 
hour  in  the  direction  by  whicli  it  had  disappeared,  he  turned 
and  walked  the  other  way — still  keeping  to  the  brink  of  the 
road — past  the  inn  garden,  and  a  long  way  down  ;  looking 
curiously  at  the  bridges,  signals,  lamps,  and  wondering  when 
another  Devil  would  come  by. 

A  trembling  of  the  ground,  and  quick  vibration  in  his  ears; 
a  distant  shriek  ;  a  dull  light  advancing,  quickly  changed  to 
two  red  eyes,  and  a  fierce  fire,  dropping  glowing  coals ;  an  ir- 
resistible bearing  on  of  a  great  roaring  and  dilating  mass  :  a 
high  wind,  and  a  rattle — another  come  and  gone,  and  he  hold- 
ing to  a  gate,  as  if  to  save  himself ! 

He  waited  for  another,  and  for  another.  He  walked  back 
to  his  fonnrr  point,  and  back  again  to  tiiat,  and  still,  through 
the  wearisniiic  vision  of  his  journey,  looked  for  these  approach* 


ROB   THE  GRlXDhR  LOSES  IJIS  I'LACE  yjfj 

ing  monsters.  He  loitered  about  the  station,  waiting  until  one 
should  stay  to  call  there  ;  and  when  one  did,  and  was  detached 
for  water,  he  stood  parallel  with  it,  watching  its  heavy  wheels 
and  brazen  front,  and  thinking  what  a  cruel  power  and  might  it 
had.  Ugh  !  To  see  the  great  wheels  slowly  turning,  and  to 
think  of  being  run  down  and  crushed  ! 

Disordered  with  wine  and  want  of  rest — that  want  which 
nothing,  although  he  was  so  weary,  would  appease — these  ideas 
and  objects  assumed  a  diseased  importance  \\\  his  thoughts, 
When  he  went  back  to  his  room,  which  was  not  until  near  mid- 
night, they  still  haunted  hmi,  and  he  sat  listening  for  the  com- 
ing of  another. 

So  in  his  bed,  whither  he  repaired  with  no  hope  of  sleep. 
He  still  lay  listening  ,  and  when  he  felt  the  trembling  and  vi- 
bration, goi  up  and  went  to  the  window,  to  watch  (as  he  could 
from  Its  position)  the  dull  light  changing  to  the  two  red  eyes, 
and  the  fierce  fire  dropping  glowing  coals,  and  the  rush  of  the 
giant  as  it  fled  past,  and  the  track  of  glare  and  smoke  along 
the  valley.  Then  he  would  glance  in  the  direction  by  which 
he  intended  to  depart  at  sunrise,  as  there  was  no  rest  for  him 
there  ;  and  would  lie  down  again,  to  be  troubled  by  the  vision 
of  his  journey,  and  the  old  monotony  of  bells  and  wheels  and 
horses"  feet,  until  another  came.  This  lasted  all  night.  So  far 
from  resuming  the  mastery  of  iiimself,  he  seemed,  if  possible, 
to  lose  it  more  and  more,  as  the  night  crept  on.  When  the 
dawn  appeared,  he  was  still  tormented  with  thinking,  still  post- 
poning thought  until  he  should  be  in  a  better  state  ;  the  past, 
present,  and  future,  all  Hoaled  confusedly  before  him,  and  he 
had  lost  all  power  of  looking  steadily  at  any  one  of  tiiem. 

"At  what  time,"  he  asked  the  man  who  had  waited  on  him 
overnight,  now  entering  with  a  candle,  "do  I  leave  here,  did 
you  say  ?  " 

"  About  a  quarter  after  four,  Sir.  Express  comes  t'nrough 
at  four,  Sir. — It  don't  stop." 

He  passed  his  hand  across  his  throbbing  head,  and  looked 
at  his  watch.     Nearly  half  past  three. 

"Nobody  going  with  you,  Sir,  probably,"  observed  the 
man.  *'  Two  gentlemen  here,  Sir,  but  they're  waiting  for  the 
train  to  London." 

"  I  thought  you  said  there  was  nobody  here,"  said  Carker, 
turning  upon  him  with  the  ghost  of  his  old  smile,  when  he  was 
angry  or  suspicious. 

"  Not  then.  Sir.  Two  gentlemen  came  in  the  night  by  the 
short  train  that  stops  her^   Sir.     Warm  water,  Sir  ?  " 


^4d  DOMBE  Y  AND  SOI^. 

**  No  ;  and  take  away  the  candle.  There's  day  enough  foi 
me." 

Having  thrown  himself  upon  the  bed,  half-dressed,  he  was 
at  the  window  as  the  man  left  the  room.  The  cold  light  of 
morning  had  succeeded  to  night,  and  there  was  already,  in  Iha 
sky,  the  red  suffusion  of  the  coming  sun.  Me  bathed  his  head 
and  face  with  water — there  was  no  cooling  influence  in  it  foi 
him — hurriedly  put  on  his  clothes,  paid  what  he  owed,  and 
went  out. 

The  air  struck  chill  and  comfortless  as  it  breathed  upoi. 
him.  There  was  a  heavy  dew  ;  and,  hot  as  he  was,  it  made  hiii. 
shiver.  After  a  glance  at  the  place  where  he  had  walked  lasi 
night,  and  at  the  signal  lights  burning  feebly  in  the  morning, 
and  bereft  of  their  significance,  he  turned  to  where  the  sun  was 
rising,  and  beheld  it,  in  its  glory,  as  it  broke  upon  the  scene. 

So  awful,  so  transcendent  in  its  beauty,  so  divinely  solemn 
As  he  cast  his  faded  eyes  upon  It^  where  it  rose,  tranquil  and 
serene,  unmoved  by  all  the  wrong  and  wickedness  on  which  its 
beams  had  shone  since  the  beginning  of  the  world,  who  shall 
say  that  some  weak  sense  of  virtue  upon  Earth,  and  its  reward 
in  Heaven,  did  not  manifest  itself,  even  to  him  ?  If  ever  he 
remembered  sister  or  brother  with  a  touch  of  tenderness  and 
remorse,  who  shall  say  it  was  not  then  ? 

He  needed  some  such  touch  then.  Death  was  on  him.  He 
was  marked  off  from  the  living  world,  and  going  down  into  his 
grave. 

He  paid  the  money  for  his  journey  to  the  country-place  he 
had  thought  of  ;  and  was  walking  to  and  fro,  alone,  looking 
along  the  lines  of  iron,  across  the  valley  in  one  direction,  and 
towards  a  dark  bridge  near  at  hand  in  the  other;  when,  turn- 
ing in  his  walk,  where  it  was  bounded  by  one  end  of  the 
wooden  stage  on  which  he  paced  up  and  down,  he  saw  the  man 
from  whom  he  had  fled,  emerging  from  the  door  by  which  he 
himself  had  entered  there      And  their  eyes  met. 

Jn  the  quick  unsteadiness  of  the  surprise,  he  staggered. 
and  slipped  on  to  the  road  below  him.  But  recovering  his 
feet  immediately,  he  stepped  back  a  pace  or  two  upon  that 
road,  to  interpose  some  wider  space  between  them,  and  looked 
at  his  pursuer,  breathing  short  and  quick. 

He  heard  a  shout — another — saw  the  face  change  from  its 
vindictive  passion  to  a  faint  sickness  and  terror — felt  the  earth 
tremble — knew  in  a  moment  that  the  rush  was  come — uttered 
a  shriek — looked  round — saw  the  red  eyes,  bleared  and  dim,  in 
the  daylight,  close  upon  him — was  beaten  down,  caught  up,  and 


SEVERAL  PEOPLE  DELJCILTED. 


741 


whirled  away  upon  a  ja;:;:;(jd  mill,  tliat  spun  him  round  and 
round,  and  struck  him  hmb  from  Umb,  and  licked  his  stream  of 
life  u])  with  its  fiery  heat,  and  cast  his  mutilated  fra;^menls  in 
the  air. 

When  the  traveller,  who  had  been  recognized,  recovered 
from  a  swoon,  he  saw  them  hrin;.;ni;;'  from  atlistancc  somethiuL; 
co\cred,  that  lay  heavy  and  still,  upon  a  board,  between  four 
men,  and  saw  that  others  drove  some  do2;s  away  that  sniffed 
upon  the  road,  and  soaked  his  blood  up,  with  a  train  of  ashes. 


CHAPTER  LVI. 

SEVERAL    PEOPLE     DELIGHTED,    AND   THE    GAME    CHICKEN 
DISGUSTED. 

The  Midshipman  was  all  alive.  Mr.  Toots  and  Susan  had 
arrived  at  last.  Susan  had  run  up  stairs  like  a  young  woman 
bereft  of  her  senses,  and  Mr.  Toots  and  the  Chicken  had  gone 
into  the  parlor. 

"  Oh  my  own  pretty  darling  sweet  Miss  P'loy ! "  cried  the 
Nipper,  running  into  Florence's  room,  "to  think  that  it  should 
come  to  this  and  I  should  find  you  here  my  own  dear  dove 
with  nobody  to  wait  upon  you  and  no  home  to  call  your  own 
but  never  never  will  1  go  away  Miss  Floy  for  though  I  may  not 
gather  moss  I'm  not  a  rolling  stone  nor  is  my  heart  a  stone  or 
else  it  wouldn't  bust  as  it  is  busting  now  oh  dear  oh  dear!" 

Pouring  out  these  words,  without  the  faintest  indication  of 
a  stop,  of  any  sort.  Miss  Nijjper,  on  her  knees  beside  her 
Mistress,  hugged  her  close. 

"  Oh  love  !  "  cried  Susan,  "  I  know  all  that's  past  I  know  it 
all  my  tender  pet  and  Fm  a  choking  give  me  air  !  " 

"  Susan,  dear  good  Susan  !  "  said  Florence. 

"Oh  bless  her  !  I  that  was  her  little  maid  when  she  was  a 
little  child  !  and  is  she  really,  really  truly  going  to  be  married  ! '' 
exclaimed  Susan,  in  a  burst  of  pain  and  pleasure,  pride  and 
grief,  and  Heaven   knows  how  many  other  conflicting  feelings. 

"  Who  told  you  so  ?"  said  Florence. 

"Oh  gracious  me!  that  innoccntest  creetur  Toots,"  re- 
turned Susan  hysterically.  "  I  knew  he  must  be  right  my  dear 
becau::e  he  took  on  so.  He's  the  devotedcst  and  innocentest 
infant !     And  is  mv  darling,"  pursued  Sus.in,  with  another  close 


742 


DOMBEY  AXD  SOy. 


embrace  and  burst  of  tears,  "  really  really  going  to  be  mar. 
ried  !  " 

The  mixture  of  compassion,  pleasure,  tenderness,  pro- 
tection, and  regret  with  which  the  Nipper  constantly  recurred 
to  this  subject,  and  at  every  such  recurrence,  raised  her  head 
to  look  in  the  young  face  and  kiss  if,  and  then  laid  her  head 
again  upon  her  mistress's  shoulder,  caressing  her  and  sobbing, 
was  as  womanly  and  good  a  thing,  in  its  way,  as  ever  was  seen 
in  the  world. 

"  There,  there !  "  said  the  soothing  voice  of  Florence  pres' 
ently.     "  Now  you're  quite  yourself,  dear  Susan  !  " 

Miss  Nipper,  sitting  down  upon  the  floor,  at  her  mistress's 
feet,  laughing  and  sobbing,  holding  her  pocket-handkerchief  to 
her  eyes  with  one  hand,  and  patting  Diogenes  with  the  other 
as  he  licked  her  face,  confessed  to  being  more  composed,  and 
laughed  and  cried  a  little  more  in  proof  of  it. 

"  I — I — I  never  did  see  such  a  creetur  as  that  Toots," 
said  Susan,  "  in  all  my  born  days  never !  " 

"  So  kind,"  suggested  Florence. 

"  And  so  comic !  "  Susan  sobbed.  "  The  way  he's  been 
going  on  inside  with  me  with  that  disrespectable  Chicken  on 
the  box !  " 

"  About  what,  Susan  .>  "  inquired  Florence  timidly. 

"  Oh  about  Lieutenant  Walters,  and  Captain  Gills,  and  you 
my  dear  Miss  Floy,  and  the  silent  tomb,"  said  Susan. 

"  The  silent  tomb  !  "  repeated  P'lorence. 

"He  says,"  here  Susan  burst  into  a  violent  hysterical  laugh, 
"that  he'll  go  down  into  it  now  immediately  and  quite  com- 
fortable, but  bless  your  heart  my  dear  Miss  Floy  he  won't,  he's 
a  great  deal  too  happy  in  seeing  other  people  happy  for  that, 
he  may  not  be  a  Solomon,"  pursued  tlie  Nipper,  witli  her  usual 
volubility,  "  nor  do  I  say  he  is  but  this  I  do  say  a  less  selfish 
human  creature  human  nature  never  knew  !  " 

Miss  Nipper  being  still  hysterical,  laughed  immoderately 
after  making  this  energetic  declaration,  and  then  informed 
Florence  that  he  was  waiting  below  to  see  her  ;  which  would 
be  a  rich  repayment  for  the  trouble  he  had  had  in  his  late 
expedition. 

Florence  entreated  Susan  to  beg  of  Mr.  Toots  as  a  favor 
that  she  might  have  the  pleasure  of  thanking  him  for  his  kind- 
ness ;  and  Susan,  in  a  few  moments,  produced  that  young  gen- 
tleman,  still  very  much  dishevelled  in  appearance,  and  stam- 
mering exceedingly. 

"  Miss  Dombey,"  said  Mr.  Toots,     "  To  be  again  i->ermitted 


SKIKKAL  rF.OPLE  DEI.IGIT rh.D.  7.^3 

to — to — gaze — at  least,  not  to  gaze,  but — I  don't  exactly  know 
what  I  was  going  to  say,  but  it's  of  no  consequence." 

"  I  have  to  thank  you  so  often,"  returned  Florence,  giving 
him  both  her  hands,  with  all  her  innocent  gratitude  beaming  in 
her  face,  "  that  1  have  no  words  left,  and  don't  know  how  to 
do  it." 

"  Miss  Dombey,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  in  an  awful  voice,  "  if  it 
was  possible  that  you  could,  consistently  with  your  angelic 
nature.  Curse  me,  you  would — if  I  may  be  allowed  to  say  so^ 
Hoor  me  inlinitely  less,  than  by  these  undeserved  expressions 
of  kindness.  Their  effect  upon  me — is — but,"  said  Mr.  Toots, 
abruptly,  "  this  is  a  digression,  and  's  of  no  consequence  at  all." 

As  there  seemed  to  be  no  means  of  replying  to  this,  but  by 
thanking  him  again,  Florence  thanked  him  again. 

"I  could  wish,"  said  Mr  Toots,  "  to  take  this  opportunity, 
Miss  Dombey,  if  I  might,  of  entermg  into  a  word  of  explana- 
tion. I  should  have  had  the  pleasure  of — of  returning  with 
Susan  at  an  earlier  period  ;  but,  in  the  first  place,  we  didn't 
know  the  name  of  the  relation  to  whose  house  she  had  gone, 
and,  in  the  second,  as  she  had  left  that  relation's  and  gone  to 
another  at  a  distance,  I  think  that  scarcely  anything  short  of 
the  sagacity  of  the  Chicken,  would  have  found  her  out  in  the 
time." 

Florence  was  sure  of  it. 

"This,  however,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "is  not  the  point.  The 
company  of  Susan  has  been,  I  assure  you.  Miss  Dombey,  a  con- 
solation and  satisfaction  to  me,  in  my  state  of  mind,  more  easily 
conceived  than  described.  The  journey  has  been  its  own 
reward.  That,  however,  still,  is  not  the  point.  Miss  Dombey, 
I  have  before  observed  thai  I  know  I  am  not  what  is  consid- 
ered a  (juick  person.  I  am  perfectly  aware  of  that.  1  don't 
think  anybody  could  be  better  acquainted  with  his  own — if  it 
was  not  too  strong  an  expression,  1  should  say  with  the  thick- 
ness of  his  own  head — than  myself.  IJut,  Miss  Dombey,  I  do, 
notwithstanding,  perceive  the  slate  of — of  things — with  Lieu- 
tenant Walters.  Whatever  agony  that  stale  of  things  may  have 
caused  me  (which  is  of  no  consequence  at  all),  I  am  bound  to 
say,  that  Lieutenant  Walters  is  a  person  who  appears  to  be 
worthy  of  the  blessing  that  has  fallen  on  his — on  his  brow. 
May  he  wear  it  long,  and  appreciate  it,  as  a  very  different,  and 
very  unworthy  individual,  that  it  is  of  no  consequence  to  name, 
would  have  done!  That,  however,  still,  is  not  the  point.  Miss 
Dombey,  Captain  (Jills  is  a  frienJ  of  mine  ;  and  during  the 
interval  that  is  now  elapsing,  I  believe  it  would  alTord  Captain 


744  JH)MI<RV  AiXJ)  SOA'. 

(Jills  pleasure  to  see  me  occasionally  coming  backwards  and 
forwards  here.  It  would  afford  me  pleasure  so  to  come.  But 
I  cannot  forget  that  1  once  committed  myself,  fatally,  at  the 
corner  of  the  Square  at  Brighton;  and  if  my  presence  will  be, 
in  the  least  degree,  unpleasant  to  you,  I  only  ask  you  to  name 
it  to  me  now,  and  assure  you  that  I  shall  perfectly  understand 
you.  I  shall  not  consider  it  at  all  unkind,  and  shall  only  be 
too  delighted  and  happy  to  be  honored  with  your  confidence." 
"  Mr.  Toots,"  returned  Florence,  "  if  you,  who  are  so  old 
and  true  a  friend  of  mine,  were  to  stay  away  from  this  house 
now,  you  would  make  me  very  unhappy.  It  can  never,  never, 
give  me  any  feeling  but  pleasure  to  see  you." 

"  Miss  Dombey,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  taking  out  his  pocket- 
handkerchief,  "  if  I  shed  a  tear,  it  is  a  tear  of  joy.  It  is  of  no 
consequence,  and  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you.  I  may  be 
allowed  to  remark,  after  what  you  have  so  kindly  said,  that  it  is 
not  my  intention  to  neglect  my  person  any  longer." 

Florence  received  this  intimation  w'ith  the  prettiest  expres- 
sion of  perplexity  possible. 

"I  mean,"  said  Afr.  Toots,  "that  I  shall  consider  it  my 
duty  as  a  fellow-creature  generally,  until  I  am  claimed  by  the 
silent  tomb,  to  make  the  best  of  myself,  and  to — to  have  my 
boots  as  brightly  polished,  as — as  circumstances  will  admit  of. 
This  is  the  last  time,  Miss  Dombey,  of  my  intruding  any  obser- 
vation of  a  private  and  personal  nature.  I  thank  you  very 
much  indeed.  If  I  am  not,  in  a  general  way,  as  sensible  as  my 
friends  could  wish  me  to  be,  or  as  I  could  wish  myself,  I  really 
am,  upon  my  word  and  honor,  particularly  sensible  of  what  is 
considerate  and  kind.  I  feel,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  in  an  impas- 
sioned tone,  "  as  if  I  could  express  my  feelings,  at  the  present 
moment,  in  a  most  remarkable  manner,  if — if — I  could  only 
get  a  start." 

Appearing  not  to  get  it,  after  waiting  a  minute  or  two  to  see 
if  it  would  come,  Mr.  Tcjots  took  a  hasty  leave,  and  went  below 
to  seek  the  caj^tain,  whom  he  found  in  the  shop. 

"  Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  what  is  now  to  take 
place  between  us,  takes  place  under  the  sacred  seal  of  confi- 
dence. It  is  the  sequel,  Captain  Gills,  of  what  has  taken 
place  between  myself  and  Miss  Dombey,  up  stairs." 

"  Alow  and  aloft,  eh,  my  lad  ?  "  murmured  the  Captain. 

"  Exactly  so,  Captain  Ciills,""  said  Mr.  Toots,  whose  favor 
of  acquiescence  was  greatly  hcii,ditencd  by  his  entire  ignorance 
of  the  Captain's  meaning.  "  Miss  Dombey,  I  believe.  Captain 
Cills^  is  to  be  shortly  united  to  Lieutenant  Walters  ?  " 


SEVl'.RAl.   I'HOPLl.   lUJJGHrr.D.  74t; 

"  Why,  ay,  my  lad.  We're  all  shipmets  here, — Wal'r  and 
sweetheart  will  be  jined  together  in  the  house  of  bondage,  as 
soon  as  the  asking  is  over,"  whispered  Captain  Cuttle  in  his 
ear. 

"  The  askings,  Captain  Gills  ? "  repeated  Mr.  Toots, 

"  In  the  church,  down  yonder,  said  the  Captain,  pointing 
his  thumb  over  his  shoulder. 

"  Oh  !     Yes  !  "  returned  Mr.  Toots. 

"  And  then,"  said  the  captain,  in  his  hoarse  whisper,  and 
tapping  Mr.  Toots  on  the  chest  with  the  back  of  his  hand,  and, 
falling  from  him  with  a  look  of  infinite  admiration,  "  what  f(jl- 
lers.'  That  there  pretty  crectur,  as  delicately  brought  up  as  a 
foreign  bird,  goes  away  up  on  the  roaring  main  with  Wal'r  on  a 
woyage  to  China  !  " 

"Lord,  Captain  Gills!  "  said  Mr.  Toots. 

"  Ay  !  "  Dodded  the  Captain.  "  The  ship  as  took  him  up, 
when  he  was  wrecked  in  the  hurricane  that  had  drove  her  clean 
out  of  her  course,  was  a  China  trader,  and  Wal'r  made  the 
woyage,  and  got  into  favor,  abrf)ad  and  asliore — being  as  smart 
and  good  a  lad  as  ever  stepped — and  so,  the  supercargo  dying 
at  (.Canton,  he  got  made  (having acted  as  clerk  afore),  and  now 
he's  supercargo  aboard  another  ship,  same  owners.  And  so 
you  sec,"  repeated  the  Captain,  thoughtfully,  "  the  pretty 
creetur  goes  away  upon  the  roaring  main  with  Warr,  on  a 
woyage  to  China." 

'Mr.  Toots  and  Captain  Cuttle  heaved  a  sign  in  concert. 

"  ^^'hat  then  ? "  said  the   Captain.     "She  loves   him   true. 
He  loves  her  true.    Them  as  should  have  loved  and  tended  of  her 
treated  of  her  like  the  beasts  as  perish.     When  she,  cast  out  of 
home,  come  here  to  me,  and  dropped  upon  them   planks,  her 
wownded  heart  was  broke.     I  know  it.     I,  Ed'ard  Cuttle,  see  it. 
There's  nowt  but  true,  kind,  steady  love,  as  can  ever  piece  it  up 
again.      If  so  be  I  didn't  know  that,  and  didn't  know  as  Wal' 
was  her  true  love,  brother,  and  she  his,  I'd  have  these  here  blu 
arms  and  legs  chopped  off,  afore  I'd  let  her  go.     But  I  ilo  kn.  • 
it,  and  what  then  ?     Why,  then,  I  say,  Heaven  go  with  'em  both 
and  so  it  will !     Amen  ! " 

"  Captain  (nils,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  let  me  have  the  pleasure 
of  shaking  hands.  You  'vc  a  way  of  saying  things,  thnt 
gives  me  an  agreeable   warmth,  all  up  my  back,     /say  Amen. 

You  are  aware.  Captain  Gills,  that  I,  too,  have  adored  Miss 
Dombey." 

"  Cheer  up  !  "  said  the  Captain,  laying  his  hand  on  Mr, 
Toots's  shoulder.     "  Stand  by,  boy  !  " 


746  DOMBEY  AXD  SOA\ 

"  It  is  my  intention,  Captain  (iills,"  returned  the  spirited  Mi. 
Toots,  "A^ciiecr  up.  yMso  to  stand  by,  as  much  as  possible. 
When  the  silent  tomb  shall  yawn,  Captain  (iiils,  I  shall  be  ready 
for  burial ;  not  before.  But  not  being  certain,  just  at  present, 
of  my  power  over  myself,  what  I  wish  to  say  to  you,  and  what  I 
shall  take  it  as  a  particular  favor  if  you  will  mention  to  Lieu- 
tenant Walters,  is  as  follows." 

"  Is  as  follers,"  echoed  the  Captain.     "  Steady  !  " 

*'  Miss  Dombey  being  so  inexpressibly  kind,"  continued  Mr. 
Toots  with  watery  eyes,  "as  to  say  that  my  presence  is  the 
reverse  of  disagreeable  to  her,  and  you  and  every1)ody  here  being 
no  less  forbearing  and  tolerant  towards  one  who — wlio  certainly," 
said  Mr.  Toots,  with  momentary  dejection,  '^'^  would  appear  to 
have  been  born  by  mistake,  I  shall  come  backwards  and  for- 
wards of  an  e\ening,  during  the  short  time  we  can  all  be  to- 
gether. But  what  I  ask  is  this.  If,  at  any  moment,  I  find  that 
1  cannot  endure  the  contemplation  of  Lieutenant  \N'alters's  bliss, 
and  should  rush  out,  I  hope.  Captain  Gills,  that  you  and  he  will 
both  consider  it  as  my  misfortune  and  not  my  fault,  or  the  want 
of  inward  conflict.  That  you'll  feel  convinced  1  bear  no  malice 
to  any  living  creature — least  of  all  lo  Lieutenant  ^'alters  him- 
self— and  that  you'll  casually  remark  that  I  ha\'e  gone  out  for  a 
walk,  or  probably  to  see  what  o'clock  it  is  by  the  Royal  ICx- 
change.  Captain  Gills,  if  you  could  enter  into  this  arrangement, 
and  could  answer  for  Lieutenant  Walters,  it  would  be  a  relief  to 
my  feelings  that  I  should  think  cheap  at  the  sacrifice  of  a  con- 
siderable ]5ortion  of  my  property." 

"My  lad,"  returned  the  Captain,  "say  no  more.  There 
ain't  a  color  you  can  run  up,  as  won't  be  made  out,  and  answered 
to,  by  Wal'r  and  self." 

"Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr.  Tools,  "  my  mind  is  greatly  re- 
lieved. I  wish  to  preserve  the  good  opinion  of  all  here.  1 — I 
■ — mean  well,  upon  my  honor,  however  badly  I  may  show  it. 
You  know,"  said  Mr.  'Foots,  "it's  exactly  as  if  Burgess  and  Co. 
wished  to  oblige  a  customer  with  a  most  extraordinary  pair  of 
trousers,  and  iould  not  q.\\\.  out  what  they  had  in  their  minds." 

With  this  apposite  illustration,  of  which  he  seemed  a  little 
proud,  Mr.  Toots  gave  Captain  Cuttle  his  blessing  and  de- 
parted. 

'J'he  honest  (\aptain,  with  his  Heart's  Delight  in  \\\t  house, 
and  .Susan  tending  her,  was  a  beaming  and  a  happy  man.  .As 
the  days  Hew  by,  he  grew  more  beaming  and  more  hai)py.  every 
day.  .'\fter  some  conferences  with  Susan  (for  whose  wisdom 
the  Captain  had  a  profound  res))ect,  and  whose  valiant  precipi- 


SF.VF.KAf.  PEOPLE  DE/./iJ //TED. 


747 


tation  of  herself  on  Mis.  MacStinger  lie  could  never  forp;ct),lie 
proposed  to  I'lorenre  that  the  daii<:;htcr  of  the  elderly  lady  who 
usually  sat  under  the  blue  umbrella  in  Leadenhall  Market, 
should,  for  prudential  reasons  and  considerations  of  privacy,  be 
superseded  in  the  temporary  dischari^e  of  the  household  duties, 
by  some  one  who  was  not  unknown  to  them,  and  in  whom  they 
could  safely  confide.  Susan,  being  present,  then  named,  in 
furtherance  of  a  suggestion  she  had  previously  offered  to  the 
Captain,  Mrs.  Richards.  Florence  brightened  at  the  name. 
And  Susan,  setting  off  that  very  afternoon  to  the  Toodle  domi- 
cile, to  sound  Mrs.  Richards,  returned  in  triumph  the  same 
evening,  accompanied  by  the  identical  rosy-cheeked  apple-faced 
Polly,  whose  demonstrations,  when  brought  into  Florence's 
presence,  were  hardly  less  affectionate  than  those  of  Susan  Nip- 
per herself. 

This  piece  of  generalship  accomplished  ;  from  which  the 
Captain  derived  uncommon  satisfaction,  as  he  did,  indeed,  from 
everything  else  that  was  done,  whatever  it  happened  to  be  ; 
Florence  had  next  to  prepare  Susan  for  their  approaching  separa- 
tion. This  was  a  much  more  difTicult  task,  as  Miss  Nipper  was 
of  a  resolute  disposition,  and  had  fully  made  up  her  mind  that 
she  had  come  back  never  to  be  parted  from  her  old  mistress 
any  more. 

"  As  to  wages,  dear  Miss  Floy,"  she  said,  "  you  wouldn't  hint 
and  wrong  me  so  as  think  of  naming  them,  for  I've  put  money 
by  and  wouldn't  sell  my  love  and  duty  at  a  time  like  this  even 
if  the  Savings'  Banks  and  me  were  total  strangers'or  the  Banks 
were  broke  to  pieces,  but  you've  never  been  without  me  darling 
from  the  time  )our  poor  dear  Ma  was  took  awav,  and  though 
Fm  nothing  to  be  boasted  of  you're  used  to  me  and  oh  my  own 
dear  mistress  through  so  many  years  don't  think  of  going  any- 
where without  me,  for  it  mustn't  and  can't  be  1  " 

"  Dear  Susan,  I  am  going  on  a  long,  long  voyage." 

"Well  Miss  I'loy,  and  what  of  that.?  the  more  you'll  want 
me.  Lengths  of  voyages  ain't  an  object  in  my  eyes,  thank  God  I  " 
said  the  impetuous  Susan  Nipper. 

"  But,  Susan,  I  am  going  with  ^^'alter,  and  I  would  go  with 
\\alter  anywhere — cveiy  where  !  Walter  is  poor,  and  I  am  very 
poor,  and  I  must  learn,  now,  both  to  help  myself,  and  help 
him." 

"  Dear  Miss  Floy!  "  cried  Susan,  bursting  out  afresh,  and 
shaking  her  head  violently,  "  it's  nothing  new  to  you  to  help 
yourself  and  others  too  and  be  the  patientest  and  truest  of  noble 
hearts,  but  let  me  talk  to  Mr.  Walter  Gay  and  settle  it  with  him. 


^48  DOM  BEY  AXD  SOX 

for  sufTer  you  (o  go  away  across  the  world  alone  I  cannot,  and 
I  won't." 

"  Alone,  Susan  ?  "  returned  Florence.  "  Alone  .-'  and  Walter 
taking  me  with  him  !  Ah,  what  a  bright,  amazed,  enraptured 
smile  was  on  her  face  ! — He  should  have  seen  it.  "  I  am  sure 
you  will  not  speak  to  Walter  if  I  ask  you  not,"  she  added  ten- 
derly;  "and  pray  don't  dear." 

Susan  sobbed  "  why  not,  Miss  Floy  ?  " 

"  Because,"  said  Florence,  "  I  am  going  to  be  his  wife,  to 
give  him  up  my  whole  heart,  and  to  live  with  him  and  die  witli 
him.  He  might  think,  if  you  said  to  him  what  you  ha\e  said 
to  me,  that  I  am  afraid  of  what  is  before  me,  or  that  you  have 
some  cause  to  be  afraid  for  me.  Why,  Susan,  dear,  I  love 
him !  " 

Miss  Nipper  was  so  much  affected  by  the  quiet  fervor  of 
these  words,  and  the  simple,  heartfelt,  all-pervading  earnestness 
expressed  in  them,  and  making  the  speaker's  face  more  beauti- 
ful and  pure  than  ever,  that  she  could  only  cling  to  her  again, 
crying  Was  her  little  mistress  really,  really  going  to  be  married, 
and  pitying,  caressing,  and  protecting  her,  as  she  had  done 
before. 

But  the  Nipper,  though  susceptible  of  womanly  weaknesses, 
was  almost  as  capable  of  puttuig  constraint  upon  herself  as  of 
attacking  the  redoubtable  MacStinger.  l''rom  that  time,  she 
never  returned  to  the  subject,  but  was  always  cheerful,  active, 
bustling,  and  hopeful.  She  did,  indeed,  inform  Mr.  Toots  pri- 
vately, that  she  was  only  "  keeping  up  "  for  the  time,  and  that 
when  it  was  all  over,  and  Miss  Dombey  was  gone,  she  might 
be  expected  to  become  a  spectacle  distressful  ;  and  Mr.  Toots 
did  also  express  that  it  was  his  case  too,  and  that  they  would 
mingle  their  tears  together  ;  but  she  never  otherwise  indulged 
her  private  feelings  in  the  presence  of  Florence  or  within  the 
precincts  of  the  Midshipman. 

Limited  and  plain  as  Florence's  wardrobe  was — what  a 
contrast  to  that  prepared  for  the  last  marriage  in  which  she 
had  taken  j^art  ! — there  was  a  good  deal  to  do  in  getting  it 
ready,  and  Susan  Nipper  worked  away  at  her  side,  all  day,  witii 
the  concentrated  zeal  of  fifty  semptresses.  The  wonderful 
contributions  Cajitain  Cuttle  would  ha\e  made  to  this  branch 
of  the  outfit,  if  he  had  been  permitted — as  pink  parasols,  tinted 
silk  stockings,  blue  shoes,  and  other  articles  no  less  necessary 
on  shipboard — would  occupy  some  space  in  the  recital.  He 
was  induced,  liowe\cr,  by  various  fraudulent  representations, 
to  limit  his  contributions  to  a  workbox  and  dressing-case,  of 


SRVK/^AL  PEOrLE  DEI.ICIITED  ^45 

each  of  wliich  lie  purchased  the  very  lar;^e.st  specimen  that 
could  be  got  for  money.  For  ten  days  or  a  fortnight  afterwards, 
he  generally  sat,  during  the  greater  part  of  the  day,  gazing  at 
these  boxes  ;  divided  between  extreme  admiration  of  tlicm,  and 
dejected  misgivings  that  they  were  not  gorgeous  enougli,  and 
frequently  diving  out  into  the  street  to  purchase  some  wild 
article  that  he  deemed  necessary  to  their  completeness,  I'>ut 
his  master-stroke  was,  the  bearing  of  them  both  olT,  suddenly, 
one  morning,  and  getting  the  two  words  Florknck  Gay  en- 
graved upon  a  brass  heart  mlaid  over  the  lid  of  each.  After 
this,  he  smoked  four  pipes  successively  in  the  little  parlor  by 
himself,  and  was  discovered  chuckling,  at  the  expiration  of  as 
many  hours. 

Walter  was  busy  and  away  all  day,  but  came  there  every 
morning  early  to  see  Florence,  and  always  passed  the  evening 
with  her.  Florence  never  left  her  high  rooms  but  to  steal  down 
stairs  to  wait  for  him  when  it  was  his  time  to  come,  or,  shel- 
tered by  his  proud,  encircling  arm,  to  bear  him  company  to  the 
door  again,  and  sometimes  peep  into  the  street.  In  the  twi- 
light they  were  always  together.  Oh  blessed  time !  Oh  wan- 
dering heart  at  rest  !  Oh  deep,  exhaustless,  mighty  well  of 
love,  in  which  so  much  was  sunk  ! 

The  cruel  mark  was  on  her  bosom  yet.  It  rose  against  her 
father  with  the  breath  she  drew,  it  lay  between  her  and  her 
lover  when  he  pressed  her  to  his  heart.  But  she  forgot  it.  In 
the  beating  of  that  heart  for  her,  and  in  the  beating  of  her  own 
for  him,  all  harsher  music  was  unheard,  all  stern  unloving 
hearts  forgotten.  Fragile  and  delicate  she  was,  but  with  a 
might  of  love  within  her  that  could,  and  did,  create  a  world  to 
fly  to,  and  to  rest  in,  out  of  his  one  miage. 

Mow  often  dill  the  great  house,  and  the  old  days,  come  be- 
fore her  in  the  twilight'  time,  when  she  was  sheltered  by  the 
arm,  so  proud,  so  fond,  and,  creeping  closer  to  him,  shrunk 
within  it  at  the  iccoUection  !  How  often,  from  remembering 
the  night  when  she  went  down  to  that  room  and  met  the  never 
to  be  forgotten  look,  did  she  raise  her  eyes  to  those  that 
watched  her  with  such  loving  earnestness,  and  weep  with  hap- 
piness in  such  a  refuge  !  The  more  she  clung  to  it,  the  more 
the  dear  dead  child  was  in  her  thoughts :  but  as  if  the  last 
time  she  had  seen  her  father,  had  been  when  he  was  sleeping 
and  she  kissed  his  face,  she  always  left  him  so,  and  never,  in 
her  fancy,  passed  that  hour. 

"  Walter,  dear,"  said  Florence,  one  evening,  when  it  was  al- 
most dark.    "  Doyou  know  what  I  have  been  thinking  to-day  ?  " 


756  iJOMliJA'  AND  S0\\ 

"  Thinking  how  the  time  is  flying  on,  and  how  soon  weslw.ll 
be  upon  the  sea,  sweet  Florence  ?  " 

"  I  don't  mean  that,  Walter,  though  I  think  of  that  too.  I 
have  been  thinking  what  a  charge  I  am  to  you." 

"  A  precious,  sacred  charge,  dear  heart  !  W^hy  /think  that 
sometimes." 

"  You  are  laughing,  Walter.  I  know  that's  much  more  in 
your  thoughts  than  mine.     But  I  mean  a  cost." 

"  A  cost,  my  own  ?  " 

"  In  money,  dear.  All  these  preparations  that  Susan  and  I 
are  so  busy  with — I  have  been  able  to  purchase  very  little  foi 
myself.  You  were  poor  before.  But  how  much  poorer  I  shall 
make  you,  Walter  !  " 

"  And  how  much  richer,  Florence  !  " 

Florence  laughed,  and  shook  her  head. 

"  Besides,"  said  Walter,  "  long  ago — before  I  went  to  sea — ■ 
I  had  a  little  purse  presented  to  me,  dearest,  which  had  money 
in  it." 

"  Ah  !  "  returned  Florence,  laughing  sorro\\'fully,  "  very  little  ! 
Very  little.  Walter  !  But,  you  must  not  think,"  and  here  she 
laid  her  light  hand  on  his  shoulder,  and  looked  into  his  face, 
"  that  I  regret  to  be  this  burden  on  you.  No,  dear  love,  I  am 
glad  of  it.  I  am  happy  in  it,  I  wouldn't  have  it  otherwise  for 
all  the  world  !  " 

"  Nor  I,  indeed,  dear  Florence." 

"  Ay  !  but  Walter,  you  can  never  feel  it  as  I  do.  I  am  so 
proud  of  you  !  It  makes  my  heart  swell  with  such  delight  to 
know  that  those  who  speak  of  you  must  say  you  married  a 
poor  disowned  girl,  who  had  taken  shelter  here  ;  who  had  no 
other  home,  no  other  friends  ;  who  had  nothing — nothing  ! 
Oh,  Walter,  if  I  could  have  brought  you  millions,  I  never  could 
have  been  so  happy  for  your  sake,  as  I  am  !  " 

"And  you,  dear  Florence?  are  you  nothing?"  he  re- 
turned. 

"  No,  nothing,  Walter.  Nothing  but  your  wife."  The 
light  hand  stole  about  his  neck,  and  the  voice  came  nearer  — 
nearer.  "  I  am  nothing  any  more,  that  is  not  to  you.  I  have 
no  earthly  hope  any  more,  that  is  not  you.  I  have  nothing 
dear  to  me  any  more,  that  is  not  you." 

Oh  !  well  might  Mr.  Toots  leave  the  little  company  (hat 
evening,  and  twice  go  out  to  correct  his  watch  by  the  Royal 
Exchange,  and  once  to  keep  an  appointment  with  a  banker 
which  he  suddenly  remembered,  and  once  to  take  a  little  turn 
to  Aldgate  Bump  and  back  I 


SEVUl^Al.  I'Eon.F.  ])l-:L[Ci/l-KD.  551 

But  before  lie  went  upon  these  expeditions,  or  indeed  b©« 
fore  he  came,  and  before  lights  were  brought,  Walter  said : 

"  Florence,  love,  the  lading  of  our  ship  is  nearly  finished, 
and  probably  on  the  very  day  of  our  marriage  she  will  drop 
down  the  river.  Shall  we  go  away  that  morning,  and  stay  in 
Kent  until  we  go  on  board  at  (iravesend  within  a  week  ? " 

"  If  you  please,  Walter.  I  shall  bo  happy  anywhere. 
But " 

"  Yes,  my  life  ?  " 

"  You  know,"  said  Florence,  "  that  we  shall  have  no  mar- 
riage party,  and  that  nobody  will  distinguish  us  by  our  dress 
from  other  people.  As  we  leave  the  same  day,  will  you — will 
you  take  me  somewhere  that  morning,  Walter — early — before 
we  go  to  ciiurch  ?  " 

Walter  seemed  to  understand  her,  as  so  true  a  lover  so 
truly  loved  should,  and  confirmed  ready  promise  with  a  kiss — 
with  more  than  one  perhaps,  or  two  or  three,  or  five  or  six  ; 
a^d  in  the  grave,  peaceful  evening,  l-'lorence  was  very  happy. 

Then  into  the  quiet  room  came  Susan  Nipper  and  the 
candles  ;  shortly  afterwards,  the  tea,  the  Captain,  and  the  ex- 
cursive Mr.  Toots,  who,  as  above  mentioned,  was  frequently  on 
the  move  afterwards,  and  passed  but  a  restless  evening.  This, 
however,  was  not  his  habit:  for  he  generally  got  on  very  well, 
by  dint  of  playing  at  cribbage  with  the  Captain  under  the  ad- 
vice and  guidance  of  Miss  Nipper,  and  distracting  his  mind 
with  the  calculations  incidental  to  the  game  ;  which  he  found 
to  be  a  very  effectual  means  of  utterly  confounding  himself. 

The  Captain's  visage  on  these  occasions  presented  one  of 
the  finest  examples  of  combination  and  succession  of  expres- 
sion ever  observed.  His  instinctive  delicacy  and  his  chivalrous 
feeling  towards  Florence,  taught  him  that  it  was  not  a  time  for 
any  boisterous  jollity,  or  violent  display  of  satisfaction.  Cer- 
tain floating  reminiscences  of  Lovely  Teg,  on  the  other  hand, 
were  constantly  struggling  for  a  vent,  and  urging  the  Captain 
to  commit  himself  by  some  irreparable  demonstration.  .\non, 
his  admiration  of  Florence  and  Walter — well-matched,  truly, 
and  full  of  grace  and  interest  in  their  youth,  and  love,  and  good 
looks,  as  they  sat  apart — would  take  such  complete  possession 
of  him,  that  he  would  lay  down  his  cards,  and  beam  upon  theni, 
dabbing  his  head  all  over  with  his  pocket-hamlkerchicf  ;  until 
warned,  perhaps,  by  the  sudden  nishing  forth  of  Mr.  'I'oots, 
that  he  had  unconsciously  been  very  instrumental,  indeed,  in 
making  that  gentleman  miserable.  This  reflection  wouhl  make  the 
Captain  profoundly  melancholy,  until  the  re'urn  of  Mr.  Toot5| 


752 


tJOMBE  Y  AND  SON-. 


when  he  would  fall  to  his  cards  again,  with  many  side  winkj 
and  nods,  and  polite  waves  of  his  hook  at  Miss  Nipper,  import* 
ing  that  he  wasn't  going  to  do  so  any  more.  The  state  that  en- 
sueil  on  this,  was,  perhaps,  his  best  ;  for  then,  endeavoring  to 
discharge  all  expression  from  his  face,  he  would  sit,  staring 
round  the  room,  with  all  these  expressions  conveyed  into  it  at 
once,  and  each  wrestling  with  the  other.  Delighted  admiration 
of  Florence  and  Walter  always  overthrew  the  rest,  and  remained 
victorious  and  undisguised,  unless  Mr.  Toots  made  another 
rush  into  the  air,  and  then  the  Captain  would  sit,  like  a  re- 
morseful culprit,  until  he  came  back  again,  occasionally  calling 
upon  himself,  in  a  low  reproachful  voice,  to  "  Stand  by  !  "  or 
growling  some  remonstrance  to  "  Ed'ard  Cuttle,  my  lad,"  on 
the  want  of  caution  observable  in  his  behavior. 

One  of  Mr.  Toots's  hardest  trials,  however,  was  of  his  own 
seeking.  On  the  approach  of  the  Sunday  which  was  to  witness 
the  last  of  those  askings  in  church  of  which  the  Captain  had 
spoken,  Mr.  Toots  thus  stated  his  feelings  to  Susan  Nipper. 

"  Susan,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  I  am  drawn  towards  the  build- 
ing. The  words  which  cut  me  off  from  Miss  Dombey  for  ever, 
will  strike  upon  my  ears  like  a  knell  you  know,  but  upon  my 
word  and  honor,  I  feel  that  I  must  hear  them.  Therefore," 
said  Mr.  Toots,  "will  you  accompany  me  to-morrow,  to  the 
sacred  edifice  ? " 

Miss  Nipper  expressed  her  readiness  to  do  so,  if  that  would 
be  any  satisfaction  to  Mr.  Toots,  but  besought  him  to  abandon 
his  idea  of  going. 

"  Susan,"  returned  Mr.  Toots,  with  much  solemnity,  "  be- 
fore my  whiskers  began  to  be  observed  by  anybody  but  myself, 
I  adored  Miss  Dombey.  While  yet  a  victim  to  the  thraldom  of 
Blimber,  I  adored  Miss  Dombey.  When  1  could  no  longer  be 
kept  out  of  my  property,  in  a  legal  point  of  view,  and — and  ac- 
cordingly came  into  it — I  adored  Miss  Dombey.  The  banns 
which  consign  her  to  Lieutenant  Walters,  and  me  to — to  Gloom, 
you  know,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  after  liesitating  for  a  strong  expres-' 
sion,  "may  be  dreadful,  7i'/// be  dreadful;  but  I  feci  that  I 
should  wish  to  hear  them  spoken.  I  feel  that  I  should  wish  to 
know  that  the  ground  was  certainly  cut  from  under  me,  and  thai 
I  hadn't  a  hope  to  cherish,  or  a — or  a  leg,  in  short,  to — to  go 
upon." 

Susan  Nipper  could  only  commiserate  Mr.  Toots's  un- 
fortunate condition,  and  agree,  under  these  circumstances,  to 
jiccompany  him  ;  which  she  did  next  morning. 

The  ghurgh  Walter  had  chosen  for  the  purpose,  was  a 


SEVER  A  r.  PEOP/.E  nE/./Gf/rED  753 

inonldy  old  church  in  a  yard,  hemmed  in  by  a  hibyrinlli  of  l)ack 
streets  and  courts,  with  a  Utile  buryiii';-,;:^round  round  it,  and  it- 
self buried  in  a  kind  of  vault,  formed  by  the  neiL,'Iiborinj;  houses, 
and  pa\cd  with  echoing  stones,  ft  was  a  ,£;reat,  dim,  shabby 
pile,  with  high  old  oaken  pews,  amoiiLi;  wiiich  al)out  a  score  of  peo- 
ple lost  themselves  every  Sunday  ;  while  tlie  clergyman's  voice 
drowsily  resounded  through  the  emptiness,  and  the  organ 
rumbled  and  rolled  as  if  the  church  had  got  the  colic,  for  want 
of  a  congre-^ation  to  keep  the  wind  and  damp  out.  But  so  far 
was  this  city  church  from  languishing  for  the  company  of  other 
churches,  that  spires  were  clustered  round  it,  as  the  masts  of 
shipping  cluster  on  the  river.  It  would  have  been  hard  to  count 
them  from  its  steeple-top,  they  were  so  many.  Jn  almost  every 
yard  and  blind-place  near,  there  was  a  church.  The  confusion 
of  bells  when  Susan  and  Mr.  Toots  betook  themselves  towards 
it  on  the  Sunday  morning,  was  deafening.  There  were  twenty 
churches  close  together,  clamoring  for  people  to  come  in. 

'J'he  two  stray  sheep  in  ([uestion  were  penned  by  a  beadle  in 
a  commodious  pew,  and,  being  early,  sat  for  some  time  counting 
the  congregation,  listening  to  the  disappointed  bell  high  up  in 
the  tower,  or  looking  at  a  shabby  little  old  man  in  the  j)orch  be- 
hind the  screen,  who  was  ringing  the  same,  like  the  l?ull  in 
Cock  Robin,  with  his  foot  in  a  stirrup.  Mr.  'foots,  after  a 
lengthened  survey  of  the  large  books  on  the  reading-<lesk, 
whispered  Miss  Nipper  that  he  wondered  where  the  banns  were 
kept,  but  that  young  lady  merely  shook  her  head  and  frowned ; 
repelling  for  the  time  all  approaches  of  a  temporal  nature. 

Mr.  Toot.s,  however,  apjiearing  unable  to  keep  Iiis  thoughts 
from  the  banns,  was  evidently  looking  out  for  them  during  the 
whole  preliminary  portion  of  the  service.  As  the  time  for  read- 
ing them  approached,  the  poor  young  gentleman  manifested 
great  anxiety  and  trepidation,  which  was  not  diminii^hed  by  the 
unexpected  apparition  of  the  Captain  in  the  front  row  of  the 
galler)'.  When  the  clerk  handed  up  a  list  to  the  clergyman,  Mr. 
'I'oots,  being  then  seated,  held  on  by  the  seat  of  the  pew  ;  but 
when  the  names  of  Walter  Gay  and  Florence  Doml;)ey  were 
read  aloud  as  being  in  the  third  and  last  stage  of  that  associ- 
ation, he  was  so  entirely  conquered  by  his  fecUn;;s  as  to  rush 
from  the  church  without  his  hat,  followed  by  the  beadle  and 
pew-opener,  and  two  gentlemen  of  the  medical  profession,  who 
happened  to  be  present  ;  of  whom  the  first-named  prer^ently  re- 
turned for  that  article,  informing  Miss  Nipper  that  she  was  not 
to  make  herself  uneasy  about  the  gentleman,  as  the  gentleman 
said  his  indisposition  was  of  no  consequence. 


754 


DOMBEY  AXD  SON: 


Miss  Nipper,  feeling  that  the  eyes  of  that  integral  portion  of 
Europe  which  lost  itself  weekly  among  the  high-backed  pews, 
were  upon  her,  would  have  been  sufficiently  embarrassed  by  this 
incident,  though  it  had  terminated  here  ;  tiie  more  so,  as  the 
Captain  in  the  front  row  of  the  gallery,  was  in  a  state  of  unmiti- 
gated consciousness  wliich  could  hardly  fail  to  express  to  the 
congregation  that  he  had  some  mysterious  connection  with  it. 
But  the  extreme  restlessness  of  Mr.  Toots  painfully  increased 
and  protracted  the  delicacy  of  her  situation.  That  young  gen- 
tleman, nicapable,  in  his  state  of  mind,  of  remaining  alone  in 
the  churchyard,  a  piey  to  solitary  meditation,  and  also  desirous, 
no  doubt,  of  testifying  his  respect  for  the  offices  he  had  in  some 
measure  interrupted,  suddenly  returned — not  coming  back  to 
the  pew,  but  stationing  himself  on  a  free  seat  in  the  aisle,  be- 
tween two  elderly  females  who  were  in  the  habit  of  receiving 
their  portion  of  a  weekly  dole  of  bread  then  set  forth  on  a  shelf 
in  the  porch.  In  this  conjunction  Mr.  Toots  remained,  greatly 
disturbing  the  congregation,  who  felt  it  impossible  to  avoid 
looking  at  him,  until  his  feelings  overcame  him  again,  when  he 
departed  silently  and  suddenly.  Not  venturing  to  trust  himself 
in  the  church  any  more,  and  yet  wishing  to  have  some  social 
participation  in  what  was  going  on  there,  Mr.  Toots  was,  after 
this,  seen  from  time  to  time,  looking  in,  with  a  lorn  aspect^  at 
one  or  otlier  of  the  windows  :  and  as  there  were  several  win- 
dows accessible  to  him  from  without,  and  as  his  restlessness 
was  very  great,  it  not  only  became  difficult  to  conceive  at  which 
window  he  would  appear  next,  but  likewise  became  necessary, 
as  it  were,  for  the  whole  congregation  to  speculate  upon  the 
chances  of  the  different  windows,  during  the  comparative  leisure 
afforded  them  by  the  sermon.  Mr.  Toots's  mo\ements  in  the 
churchyard  were  so  eccentric,  that  he  seemed  generally  to  de- 
feat all  calculation,  and  to  appear,  like  the  conjuror's  figure, 
where  he  was  least  expected  ;  and  the  effect  of  these  mysterious 
presentations  was  much  increased  by  its  being  difficult  to  him 
to  see  in,  and  easy  to  everybody  else  to  see  out  :  which  occa- 
sioned his  remaining,  every  time,  longer  than  might  ha\e  been 
expected,  with  his  face  close  to  the  glass,  until  he  all  at  once 
became  aware  that  all  eyes  were  upon  him,  and  vanished. 

'I'hese  proceedings  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Toots,  and  the  strong 
individual  consciousness  of  them  that  was  exhibited  by  the  Cap- 
tain, rendered  Miss  Nipper's  jiosition  so  responsible  a  one.  that 
she  was  mightily  relievetl  by  the  conclusion  of  the  service  ;  and 
was  hardly  so  alfnble  to  Mr.  Toots  as  usual,  when  he  informed 
her  an(j  the  Captain,  on  iIk;  way  back,  that  now  he  was  sure  h« 


sr]-i:rai.  people  delichted  -755 

had  no  Iiope,  you  know,  lie  felt  more  comfortable — at  least  not 
exactly  more  comfortable,  but  more  comfortably  and  completely 
miserable. 

Swiftly  now,  indeed,  the  time  flew  by  until  it  was  the  even- 
ing before  the  day  appointed  for  the  marriage.  They  were  all 
assembled  in  the  upper  room  at  the  Midshipman's,  and  had  no 
fear  of  interruption  ;  for  there  were  no  lodgers  in  the  house  now, 
and  the  Midshipman  had  it  all  to  himself.  They  were  grave  and 
quiet  in  the  j)rospect  of  to-morrow,  but  moderately  cheerful  too, 
Morence,  with  Walter  close  beside  her,  was  finishing  a  little 
piece  of  work  intended  as  a  parting  gift  to  the  Captain.  The 
Captain  was  playing  cribbage  with  Mr.  Toots.  Mr.  Toots  was 
taking  counsel  as  to  his  hand,  of  Susan  Nipper.  Miss  Nipper 
was  giving  it,  with  all  due  secrecy  and  circumspection.  Dio- 
genes was  listening,  and  occasionally  breaking  out  into  a  gruff, 
half-smothered  fragment  of  a  bark,  of  which  he  afterwards 
seemed  half-ashamed,  as  if  he  doubted  having  any  reason 
for  It. 

'*  Steady,  steady  !  "  said  the  Captain  to  Diogenes,  "  what's 
amiss  with  you  "i  You  don't  seem  easy  in  your  mind  to-night, 
my  boy  !  " 

Diogenes  wagged  his  tail,  but  pricked  up  his  ears  immediately 
afterwards,  and  gave  utterance  to  another  fragment  of  a  bark  ; 
for  which  he  apologized  to  the  Captain,  by  again  wagging  his 
tail. 

"  Its  my  opinion,  Di,"  said  the  Captain,  looking  thought- 
fully at  his  cards,  and  stroking  his  chin  with  his  hook,  "  as  you 
have  your  doubts  of  Mrs.  Richards  ;  but  if  you're  the  animal  I 
lake  you  to  be,  you'll  think  better  o'  that  ;  for  her  looks  is  her 
commission.  Now,  Urother  ;  "  to  Mr.  'i  oots  :  "  if  .so  be  as 
you're  ready,  heave  ahead." 

The  Captain  spoke  with  all  composure  and  attention  to  the 
game,  but  suddenly  his  cards  dropped  out  of  his  hand,  his  mouth 
and  eyes  opened  wide,  his  legs  drew  themselves  up  and  stuck 
out  in  front  of  his  chair,  and  he  sat  staring  at  the  door  with 
blank  ama/.enient.  Looking  round  upon  the  com|)any,  and  see- 
ing that  none  of  them  observed  him  or  the  cause  of  ins  astonish- 
ment, the  Captain  recovered  himself  with  a  great  gasp,  struck 
the  table  a  tremendous  blow,  cried  in  a  stentorian  roar,  "  Sol 
Gills  ahoy  !"  and  tumbled  into  the  arms  of  a  weather-beaten 
pea-coat  that  had  come  with  Polly  into  the  room 

In  another  moment,  Walter  was  m  the  arms  of  the  weather- 
beaten  pea  coat.  In  another  moment.  Florence  was  in  the  arms 
of  the  weather  beaten  pea-coat.     In  another  moment,  Captain 


756  DOMBEV  AND  SON. 

Cuttle  had  embraced  Mrs.  Richards  and  Miss  Nipper,  and  was 
violently  shaking  hands  with  Mr.  Toots,  exclaiming,  as  he  waved 
his  hook  above  his  head,  "  Mooroar,  my  lad,  hooroar  !  "  To 
which  Mr.  Toots,  wholly  at  a  loss  to  account  for  these  proceed- 
ings, replied  with  great  politeness,  "  Certainly,  Captain  Gills, 
whatever  you  think  proper  ! " 

The  weather-beaten  pea-coat,  and  a  no  less  weather-beaten 
cap  and  comforter  belonging  to  it,  turned  from  the  Captain  and 
from  Florence  back  to  Walter,  and  sounds  came  from  the 
weather-beaten  pea-coat,  cap,  and  comforter,  as  of  an  old  man 
sobbing  underneath  them  ;  while  the  shaggy  sleeves  clasped 
Walter  tight.  During  this  pause,  there  was  an  universal  silence, 
and  the  Captain  polished  his  nose  with  great  fliligence.  Eut 
when  the  pea-coat,  cap,  and  comforter  lifted  themselves  up 
again,  Florence  gently  moved  towards  them  ;  and  she  and 
Walter  taking  them  off,  disclosed  the  old  Instrument-Maker,  a 
little  thinner  and  more  careworn  than  of  old,  in  his  old  Welsh 
wig  and  his  old  coffee-colored  coat  and  basket  buttons,  with 
his  old  infallible  chronometer  ticking  away  in  his  pocket. 

"Chock  full  o'  science,"  said  the  radiant  Captain,  ''as  evei 
he  was  !  Sol  Cills,  Sol  Gills,  what  have  you  been  up  to,  for  this 
many  a  long  day,  my  ould  boy  .'' " 

"  Fm  half  blind,  Ned,"  said  the  old  man,  "  and  almost  deaf 
and  dumb  with  joy." 

"  His  wery  woice,"  said  the  Captain,  looking  round  with  an 
exultation  to  which  even  his  face  could  hardly  render  justice — 
"  his  wery  woice  as  chock  full  o'  science  as  ever  it  was  !  Sol 
Gills,  lay  to,  my  lad,  upon  your  own  wines  and  fig-trees,  like  a 
taut  ould  patriarch  as  you  are,  and  overhaul  them  there  adwen- 
tures  o'  yourn,  in  your  own  formilior  woice.  'Tis  the  woice, "^ 
said  the  Captain,  impressively,  ami  announcing  a  quotation  with 
his  hook,  "of  the  sluggard,  I  heerd  him  complain,  you  ha\e 
woke  me  too  soon,  I  must  slumber  again.  Scatter  his  enemies, 
and  make  'em  fall  !  " 

Tiie  C'aptain  sat  down  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  had  happily 
expressed  the  feeling  of  everybody  j^resent,  and  innnediately 
rose  again  to  present  Mr.  Toots,  who  was  much  disconcerted  by 
the  arrival  of  anybody,  appearing  to  prefer  a  claim  to  the  name 
of  (iills. 

"  Although,"  stammered  Mr.  Toots,  "  I  had  not  the  pleasure 
of  your  acquaintance,  Sir,  before  you  were — you  were — " 

*'  Lost  to  sight,  to  memory  dear,"  suggested  the  Captain,  in 
a  low  voice. 

"  Exactly  so,  Captain  Gills !  "  assented  Mr.  Toots.  **  Although 


SEIEKAL  PEOPLE  DEl.lCHriU). 


757 


r  had  not  the  pleasure  of  your  acquaintance,  ]\rr. — Mr.  Sols," 
said  Toots,  hitting  on  tliat  name  in  the  inspiration  of  a  bri;^iit 
idea,  "  before  that  happened,  1  have  the  greatest  pleasure,  I  as- 
sure you,  in — you  know,  in  knowing  you.  J  hoix',"  said  Mr. 
Toots,  "  that  you're  as  well  as  can  be  expected." 

With  these  courteous  words,  Mr.  Tools  sal  down  blushing 
and  chuckling. 

The  old  Instrument-Maker,  seated  in  a  corner  between 
Walter  and  I'lorence,  and  nodding  at  Polly,  who  was  looking  on, 
all  smiles  and  delight,  answered  the  Captain  thus  : 

"  Ned  Cuttle,  my  dear  boy,  although  I  have  heard  something 
of  the  changes  of  e\ents  here,  from  my  pleasant  friend  there — 
what  a  pleasant  face  she  has  to  be  sure,  to  welcome  a  wanderer 
home  !  "  said  the  old  man,  breaking  off,  and  rubbing  his  hands 
in  his  old  dreamy  way. 

"  Hear  him  !  "  cried  the  Captain  gravely.  "  'Tis  woman  as 
seduces  all  mankind.  For  which,'"  aside  to  Mr.  Toots,  "you'll 
overhaul  your  .\dam  and  Eve,  brother." 

"  I  shall  make  a  point  of  doing  so,  Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr. 
Toots. 

"Although  I  have  heard  something  of  the  changes  of  events, 
from  her,"  resumed  the  Instrument-Maker,  takmg  his  old  spec- 
tacles from  his  pocket,  and  putting  them  on  his  forehead  in  his 
old  manner,  "  they  are  so  great  and  unexpected,  and  I  am  so 
overpowered  by  the  sight  of  my  dear  boy,  and  by  the," — glan- 
cing at  the  downcast  eyes  of  Florence,  and  not  attempting  to 
finish  the  sentence — "  that  I — I  can't  say  much  to-night.  Eut 
my  dear  Ned  Cuttle,  why  didn't  you  write  .••  " 

The  astonishment  depicted  in  the  Captain's  features  pos- 
itively frightened  Mr.  Toots,  whose  eyes  were  quite  fixed  by  it, 
so  that  he  could  not  withdraw  them  from  his  face. 

"Write  !"  echoed  the  Captain      "Write,  Sol  (Jills?  " 

"Ay,"  said  the  old  man,  "either  lo  r.avl)atlos,  or  Jamaica, 
or  Demerara.     That  was  what  I  asked." 

"  What  you  asked,  Sol  Gills  ?  "  repeated  the  Captain. 

"Ay,"  said  the  old  man.  "Don't  you  know,  Ned  .^  Sure 
you  have  not  forgotten  ?     Every  time  I  wrote  to  you.' 

"The  Captain  took  off  his  glazed  hat,  hung  it  on  his  hook, 
and  smoothing  his  hair  from  behind  with  his  liand,  sat  gazing 
at  the  group  around  him  :  a  perfect  image  of  wondering  res- 
ignation. 

"  You  don't  appear  to  understand  me,  Ned  !  "  observed 
Old  Sol. 

"  Sol  Gills,"  returned  the  Captain,  after  staring  at  him  and 


75^  bOMBEY  AA'b  SOM 

the  rest  for  a  long  time,  without  si^eaking,  "  I'm  gone  about 
and  adrift.  Pay  out  a  word  or  two  respecting  them  adwenturs, 
wilt  you  !  Can't  I  bring  up,  noliows  ?  Nohows  ? "  said  the 
Captain,  ruminating,  and  staring  all  round. 

"  Vou  know,  Ned,"  said  Sol  Gills,  "why  I  left  here.  Did 
you  open  my  packet,  Ned  1 " 

"  Why,  ay,  ay,"  said  the  Captain.  "  To  be  sure,  I  opened 
the  packet." 

"  And  read  it  ? "  said  the  old  man. 

"And  read  it,"  answered  the  Captain,  eyeing  him  atten- 
tively, and  proceeding  to  quote  it  from  memory.  " '  My  dear 
Ned  Cuttle,  when  I  left  home  for  the  West  Indies  in  forlorn 
search  of  intelligence  of  my  dear — '  There  he  sits  !  There's 
Wal'r!"  said  the  Captain,  as  if  he  w'ere  relieved  by  getting 
jiold  of  anything  that  was  real  and  indisputable. 

**  W^ell,  Ned.  Now  attend  a  moment  !  "  said  the  old  man. 
"  When  I  wrote  first — that  was  from  Barbados — I  said  that 
though  you  would  receive  that  letter  long  before  the  year  A-as 
out,  I  should  be  glad  if  you  would  open  the  packet,  as  it  ex- 
plained the  reason  of  my  going  away.  Very  good,  Ned.  W'hen 
1  wrote  the  second,  third,  and  perhaps  the  fourth  times — that 
was  from  Jamaica — I  said  I  was  in  just  the  same  state,  couldn't 
come  away  from  that  part  of  the  world,  without  knowmg  that 
my  boy  was  lost  or  saved.  When  I  wrote  ne.xt — that,  I  think, 
was  from  Demerara,  wasn't  it.""' 

"That  he  thinks  was  from  Demerara,  warn't  it !  "  said  the 
Captain,  looking  hopelessly  round. 

" — I  said,"  proceeded  old  Sol,  "that  still  there  was  no  cer- 
tain information  got  yet.  That  I  found  many  captains  and 
others,  in  that  part  of  the  world,  who  had  known  me  for  years, 
and  who  assisted  me  with  a  passage  here  and  there,  and  for 
whom  I  was  able,  now  and  then,  to  do  a  little  in  return,  in  my 
own  craft.  'Hiat  every  one  was  sorry  for  me,  and  seemed  to 
take  a  sort  of  interest  in  my  wanderings  ;  and  that  I  began  to 
think  It  would  be  my  fate  to  cruise  about  in  search  of  tidings  of 
my  boy  until  I  died." 

"  Began  to  think  as  how  he  was  a  scientific  Hying  Dutch- 
man !  "  said  the  Captain,  as  before,  and  with  great  seriousness. 

"  But  when  the  news  come  one  day,  Ned. — that  was  to  Bar- 
bados, after  I  got  back  there, — that  a  China  trader  home'ard 
bound  had  been  spoke,  that  had  my  boy  aboard,  then,  Ned,  I 
took  passage  in  the  next  ship  and  came  home  ;  and  arrived  at 
home  to-night  to  find  it  true,  thank  Cod  ,'  "  said  the  old  man, 
dcN'Outly. 


SEVERAL  PEOPLE  DELIGHTED 


759 


The  Captain,  after  bowing  his  head  with  great  reverence, 
stared  all  round  the  circle,  beginning  with  Mr.  Toots,  and  end 
ing  with  the  Instrument-Maker  :  then  gravely  said  : 

"Sol  Gills!  The  observation  as  I'm  agoing  to  make  is 
calc'lated  to  blow  every  stitch  of  sail  as  you  can  carry,  clean 
out  of  the  bolt  ropes,  and  bring  you  on  your  beam  ends  with  a 
lurch.  Not  one  of  them  letters  was  ever  delivered  to  Kd'ard 
Cuttle.  Not  one  o'  them  letters,"  repeated  tlie  Captain,  to 
make  his  declaration  the  more  solemn  and  impressive,  "  was 
ever  delivered  unto  Kd'ard  Cuttle,  Mariner  of  England,  as  lives 
at  home  at  ease,  and  tloth  improve  each  shining  hour  !  " 

"  And  posted  by  my  own  hand  !  And  directed  by  my  own 
hand,  Number  nine  IJrig  Place  !  "  exclaimed  Old  Sol. 

The  color  all  went  out  of  the  Captain's  face,  and  all  came 
back  again  in  a  glow. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Sol  GilLs,  my  friend,  by  Number  nine 
IJrig  Place  ?  "  inquired  the  Captain. 

"  Mean  ?  Your  lodgings,  Ned,'"  returned  the  old  man. 
"Mrs.  What's-her-name  !  I  shall  forget  my  own  name  next, 
but  I  am  behind  the  present  time — I  always  was,  you  recollect 
— and  very  much  confused.     Mrs. — " 

"  Sol  Gills  !  "  said  the  Captain,  as  if  he  were  putting  the 
most  improbable  case  in  the  world,  "  it  ain't  the  name  of  Mac- 
Stinger  as  you're  a  trying  to  remember  .^" 

"  Of  course  it  is  !  "  exclaimed  the  Instrument-Maker.  "  To 
be  sure,  Ned.     Mrs.  MacStinger  !  " 

Captain  Cuttle,  whose  eyes  were  now  as  wide  open  as  they 
could  be,  and  the  knobs  upon  whose  face  were  perfectly  lumi- 
nous, gave  a  long  shrill  whistle  of  a  most  melanchob'  sound, 
and  stood  gazing  at  everybody  in  a  slate  of  speechlessness. 

"Overhaul  that  there  again,  Sol  Gills,  will  you  be  so 
kind  ?  "  he  said  at  last. 

"  All  these  letters,"  returned  l^ncle  Sol,  beating  time  with 
the  forefinger  of  his  right  hand  upon  the  palm  of  his  left,  with 
a  steadiness  and  distinctness  that  mi^^ht  have  done  honor, 
even  to  the  infallible  chronometer  in  his  pocket,  "  1  posted 
with  my  own  hand,  and  directed  with  my  own  I  and,  to  Captain 
Cuttle,  at  Mrs.  MacSlinger's,  Number  nine  Ilrig  Place." 

The  Captain  took  his  glazed  nat  ofT  his  hook,  looked  into 
it,  put  it  on,  and  sat  down. 

"  ^^'hy,  friends  all,"  said  the  Captain,  staring  round  in  th« 
last  state  of  discomfiture,  "  I  cut  anfl  run  from  there  !  " 

"And  no  one  knew  where  vou  were  gone,  Captain  Cuttle?" 
cried  Walter  hastily.    - 


•jCo  DOMnr.Y  AXD  sny 

"Bless  your  heart,  Wal'r,"  said  \hc  Captain,  shaking  his 
head,  "  she'd  ne\  cr  liave  allowed  o'  my  coming  to  take  charge 
o'  this  heie  property.  Notiiing  could  be  done  but  cut  and  run. 
Lord  lo\e  )ou,  Warr  !  "  said  the  Captain,  "you've  only  seen 
her  in  a  calm  !  But  see  her  when  her  angry  passions  rise — • 
and  make  a  note  on  ! " 

"  /'d  give  it  her !  "  remarked  the  Nipper,  softly 

"Would  you,  do  you  think,  my  dear  .-^ "'  returned  tlie  Cap- 
tain with  feeble  admiration.  ''Well,  my  dear,  it  does  you 
credit.  But  there  ain't  no  wild  animal  1  would  sooner  face  my- 
self. I  only  got  my  chest  away  by  means  of  a  friend  as  no- 
body's a  match  for.  It  was  no  good  sending  any  letter  there. 
She  wouldn't  take  in  any  letter,  bless  you,"  said  the  Captain, 
"under  them  circumstances!  Why,  you  could  hardly  make  it 
worth  a  man's  while  to  be  the  postman  !  '' 

"Then  it's  pretty  clear.  Captain  Cuttle,  that  all  of  us,  and 
you  and  Uncle  Sol  especially,"  said  Walter,  "  may  thank  Mrs. 
MacStinger  for  no  small  anxiety. 

The  general  obligation  in  this  wise  to  the  determined  relict 
of  the  late  Mr.  MacStinger,  was  so  apparent,  that  the  Captain 
did  not  contest  the  point  ;  but  being  in  some  measure  ashamed 
of  his  position,  though  nobody  dwelt  upon  the  subject,  and 
Walter  especially  avoided  it,  remembering  the  last  conversation 
he  and  the  Captain  had  held  together  respecting  it,  he  remained 
under  a  cloud  for  nearly  five  minutes— an  extraordinary  period 
for  him — when  that  sun,  his  face  broke  out  once  more,  shining 
on  all  beholders  with  extraordinary  brilliancy  ;  and  he  fell  into 
a  fit  of  shaking  hands  with  everybody  over  and  over  again. 

At  ai^  early  hour,  but  not  before  Uncle  Sol  and  Walter  had 
questioned  each  other  at  some  length  about  their  voyages  and 
dangers,  they  all,  except  Walter,  vacated  Florence's  room,  and 
went  down  to  ilie  parlor.  Here  they  were  soon  afterwards 
joined  by  Walter,  who  told  them  Florence  was  a  little  sorrow- 
ful and  heavy  hearted,  and  had  gone  to  bed.  Though  they 
could  not  have  disturbed  her  with  their  voices  down  there,  they 
all  sjjoke  in  a  whisper  alter  this:  and  each,  in  his  dilTeient  way, 
felt  very  lovingly  and  gently  towards  Walter's  fair  young  bride  : 
and  a  long  explanation  thert  was  of  everything  relating  to  her, 
for  the  satisfaction  of  Uncle  £ol  ;  and  very  sensible  Mr.  Toots 
was  of  the  dehcacy  with  which  Walter  made  his  name  and 
services  important,  and  his  pi^sence  necessary  to  their  little 
council. 

"  Mr.  Toots,"  said  Walter,  on  parting  with  him  at  the  house 
door,  "  we  shall  see  each  other  tomorrow  morning  ?  " 


s/<r/:A'AL  ri-.oi'LE  del/gj/ted  ^6« 

"Lieutenant  Walters,"  returned  Mr.  Tools,  {;raspin^  hii 
hand  fervently,  "  I  siiall  certainly  be  present." 

"This  IS  the  last  night  we  shall  meet  lor  a  long  lime — the 
last  night  we  may  ever  meet,"  said  Walter.  "  Such  a  noble 
heart  as  yours,  must  feel,  1  think,  when  another  heart  is  bound 
to  it.      1  hope  }()U  know  that  1  am  very  grateful  to  you  ?  " 

"Walters,"  replied  Mr.  Toots,  cjuite  touched,  "  1  should  be 
glad  to  feel  that  you  had  reason  to  be  so." 

"  Florence,"  said  Walter,  ''on  this  last  night  of  her  bearing 
her  own  name,  has  made  me  promise — it  was  only  just  now, 
when  you  left  us  together — that  I  would  tell  you — with  her  dear 
love — " 

Mr.  Toots  laid  his  hand  upon  the  doorpost,  and  his  eyes 
upon  his  hand. 

" — With  her  dear  love,"  said  Walter,  "  that  she  can  never 
have  a  friend  whom  she  will  value  above  you.  That  the  recol- 
lection of  your  true  consideration  for  her  always,  can  never  be 
forgotten  by  her.  That  she  remembers  you  in  her  prayers  to- 
night, and  hopes  that  you  will  think  of  her  when  she  is  far 
away.     Shall  I  say  anything  for  you  .'  " 

"  Say,  Walters,"  replied  Mr.  Toots  indistinctly,  "  that  I  shall 
think  of  herevery  day,  but  never  without  feeling  happy  to  know 
that  she  is  married  to  the  man  she  loves,  and  who  loves  her. 
Say,  if  you  please,  that  I  am  sure  her  husband  deserves  her 
— even  her! — and  that  I  am  glad  of  her  choice." 

Mr.  'foots  got  more  distinct  as  he  came  to  these  last  words, 
and  raising  his  eyes  from  the  door-post,  said  them  stoutly.  He 
then  shook  Walter's  hand  again  with  a  fervor  that  Walter  was 
not  slow  to  return,  and  started  homeward. 

Mr.  Toots  was  accompanied  by  the  Chicken,  whom  he  had 
of  late  brought  with  him  ever}'  evening,  and  left  in  the  shop, 
with  an  Idea  that  unforeseen  circumstances  might  arise  from 
without,  in  which  the  prowess  of  that  distinguished  character 
would  be  of  service  to  the  Midshipman  The  Chicken  did  not 
appear  to  be  in  a  particularly  good  humor  on  this  occasion 
Either  the  gas  lamps  were  treacherous,  or  he  cocked  his  eye  in 
a  hideous  manner,  and  likewise  distorted  his  nose,  when  Mr. 
Toots,  crossing  the  road,  looked  back  over  his  shoulder  at  the 
room  where  Florence  slept.  On  the  road  home,  he  was  more 
demonstrative  of  aggressive  intentions  against  the  oilier  foot- 
passengers,  than  comported  with  a  professor  of  the  peaceful  art 
of  self-defence.  Arrived  at  home,  instead  of  leaving  Mr.  Toot? 
in  his  apartments  when  he  had  escorted  him  thither,  he  re- 
mained before  him  weighing  his  white  hat  in  both  hands  by 


76i  DOMBU  V  A\'D  SON. 

the  brim,  and  twitching  his  head  and  nose  (both  of  which  had 
been  many  times  broken,  and  but  indil'ferently  repaired),  with 
an  air  of  decided  disrespect 

His  patron  being  much  engaged  with  his  own  thoughts,  did 
not  observe  this  for  some  time,  nor  indeed  until  the  Chicken, 
determined  not  to  be  o\erlooked,  had  made  divers  clicking 
sounds  with  his  tongue  and  teeth,  to  attract  attention. 

"Now,  Master,"  said  the  Chicken,  doggedly,  when  he,  at 
length,  caught  Mr.  Toots's  eye,  "  I  want  to  know  whether  this 
here  gammon  is  to  finish  it,  or  whether  you're  a  going  in  to 
wm  }  " 

"Chicken,''  returned  Mr.  Toots,  "explain  yourself." 

"Why,  then,  here's  all  about  it,  Master,"  said  the  Chicken. 
"  I  ain't  a  cove  to  chuck  a  word  away.  Here's  wot  it  is.  Are 
any  on  *em  to  be  doubled  up  ?  " 

When  the  Chicken  put  this  question  he  dropped  his  hat, 
made  a  dodge  and  a  feint  with  his  left  hand,  hit  a  supposed 
enemy  a  violent  blow  with  his  right,  shook  his  head  smartly, 
and  recovered  himself. 

"  Come,  Master,"  said  the  Chicken.  "  Is  it  to  be  gammon 
or  pluck  ?     Which  >  " 

"Chicken,"  returned  Mr.  Toots,  "your  expressions  are 
coarse,  and  your  meaning  is  obscure." 

"  Why,  then,  I  tell  you  what.  Master,"  said  the  Chicken. 
"This  is  where  it  is.     It's  mean." 

"  What  is  mean.  Chicken  ?  "  said  Mr.  Toots. 

"//is,"  said  the  Chicken,  with  a  frightful  corrugation  of  his 
broken  nose.  "  There  !  Now,  Master  !  Wot  !  Wen  you 
could  go  and  blow  on  this  here  match  to  the  stiff  'un  ; "  by  wliich 
depreciatory  appellation  it  has  been  since  supposed  that  the 
Game  One  intended  to  signify  Mr.  Dombcy  ;  "and  when  you 
could  knock  the  winner  and  all  the  kit  of  'em  dead  out  o'  wind 
and  time,  are  you  going  to  give  in  .-'  To  ^7>'^  i/i  /"  said  the 
Chicken,  with  contemptuous  emphasis.     "  Wy,  it's  mean  !  " 

"  Chicken,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  severely,  "you're  a  perfect 
Vulture  !     Your  sentiments  are  atrocious." 

"  My  sentiments  is  Game  and  Fancy,  Master,"  returned 
the  Chicken.  "  That's  wot  my  sentinients  is.  I  can't  abear  a 
meanness.  I'm  afore  the  jniblic,  I'm  to  be  heerd  on  at  the  bar 
of  the  Little  Helephant,  and  no  Ciov'ner  o'  mine  mustn't  g«. 
and  do  what's  mean.  Wy,  it's  mean,"  said  the  Chicken,  with 
increased  expression.     "That's  where  it  is.     It's  mean." 

"Chicken!"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "you  disgust  me." 

"  Master,"  returned  the  Chicken,  putting  on  his  hat,  "  there's 


a  pair  on  us,  then.  Come  !  Here's  a  offer  !  You've  spoke  to 
nie  more  than  once't  or  twice't  about  the  public  line.  Never 
mind  !     dive  me  a  fVtypunnole  to-morrow,  and  let  me  go.  ' 

"Chicken,"  returned  Mr.  Toots,  "after  the  odious  senti 
ments  you  have  expressed,  I  shall  be  glad  to  part  on  such 
terms." 

"  Done,  then,"  said  the  Chicken.  "  It's  a  bargain.  This 
here  conduct  of  yourn,  won't  suit  my  book,  Master.  Wy,  it's 
mean,''  said  the  Chicken  ;  who  seemed  equally  unable  to  get 
beyond  that  point,  and  to  stop  short  of  it.  "  That's  where  it  is  ; 
it's  mean  !  " 

So  Mr.  Toots  and  the  Chicken  agreed  to  part  on  this  incom- 
patibility of  moral  perception  ;  and  Mr.  Toots  lying  down  to 
sleep,  dreamed  happily  of  I"'loreiice,  who  had  thought  of  him  as 
her  friend  upon  the  last  night  of  her  maiden  life,  and  who  had 
sent  him  her  dear  love. 


CHAPTER  LVn. 

ANOTHER     WEDDING. 


Mr.  Sownds  the  Readle,  and  Mrs.  Mi(T  the  pew-opener, 
are  early  at  their  posts  in  the  fine  church  where  Mr.  Dombey 
was  married.  A  yellow-faced  old  gentleman  from  India,  is 
going  to  take  unto  himself  a  young  wife  this  morning,  and  six 
carriages  full  of  company  are  expectetl,  and  Mrs.  Miff  has  been 
informed  that  the  yellow-faced  old  gentleman  could  pave  the 
road  to  church  with  diamonds  and  hardly  miss  them.  The 
nuptial  benediction  is  to  be  a  superior  one.  proceeding  from  a 
very  reverend,  a  dean,  and  the  lady  is  to  be  given  away,  as  an 
extraordinary  present,  by  somebody  who  comes  express  from 
the  Horse  Cuards. 

Mrs.  Milf  is  more  intolerant  of  common  people  this  morn- 
ing, than  she  generally  is  ;  and  she  has  always  strong  opinions 
on  that  subject,  for  it  is  associated  with  free  sittings.  Mrs. 
Mil?  is  not  a  student  of  political  economy  (she  thinks  the  science 
is  connected  with  dissenters  ;  '*  Baptists  or  W'esleyans,  or  some 
o'  them,"  she  says),  but  she  can  never  understand  what  busi- 
ness your  common  folks  have  to  be  married.  "  Drat  'em," 
says  Mrs.  Miff,  "you  reafl  the  same  things  over  em,  and  in 
Stead  ot  sovereigns  get  si.vpences  1  " 


764  DOM  BEY  AA'D  SON' 

Mr.  Sownds  the  beadle  is  more  liberal  than  Mrs.  Miff- 
but  then  he  is  not  a  pew  opener.  "  It  must  be  done,  Ma'am," 
he  says.  "  We  must  marry  em.  We  must  have  our  national 
schools  to  walk  at  the  head  of,  and  we  must  have  our  standing 
armies.  We  must  marry  'em,  Ma'am,"  says  Mr.  Sownds,  "and 
keep  the  country  going." 

Mr  Sownds  is  sitting  on  the  steps  and  Mrs.  Miff  is  dustinftl 
in  the  church,  when  a  young  couple,  plainly  dressed,  come  in. 
The  mortified  bonnet  of  Mrs.  Miff  is  sharply  turned  towards 
them,  for  she  espies  in  this  early  visit  indications  of  a  runaway 
match.  But  they  don't  want  to  be  married — "  Only,"  says  the- 
gentleman,  "  to  walk  round  the  church."  And  as  he  slips  a 
genteel  compliment  into  the  palm  of  Mrs.  Miff,  her  vinegary 
face  relaxes,  and  her  mortified  bonnet  and  her  spare  dry  figure 
dip  and  crackle. 

Mrs.  Miff  resumes  her  dusting  and  plumps  up  her  cushions 
— for  the  yellow-faced  old  gentleman  is  reported  to  have  tender 
knees — but  keeps  her  glazed,  pew-opening  eye  on  the  young 
couple  who  are  walking  round  the  church.  "  Ahem,"  coughs 
Mrs.  Miff,  whose  cough  is  drier  than  the  hay  in  any  hassock  in 
her  charge,  "  you'll  come  to  us  one  of  these  mornings,  my  dears, 
unless  I'm  much  mistaken  !  '' 

They  are  looking  at  a  tablet  on  the  wall,  erected  to  the 
memory  of  some  one  dead.  They  are  a  long  way  off  from  Mrs. 
Miff,  but  Mrs.  Miff  can  see  with  half  an  eye  liow  she  is  leaning 
on  his  arm,  and  how  his  head  is  bent  down  over  her.  "  Well, 
well,"  says  Mrs.  Miff,  "  you  might  do  worse.  For  you're  a 
tidy  pair!  " 

There  is  nothing  personal  in  Mrs.  Miff's  remark.  She 
merely  speaks  of  stock  in  trade.  She  is  hardly  more  curious 
in  couples  than  in  coffins.  She  is  such  a  spare,  straight,  dry 
old  lady — such  a  pew  of  a  woman — that  you  should  find  as 
many  individual  sympathies  in  a  chip.  Mr.  Sownds,  now,  who 
is  Heshy,  and  has  scarlet  in  his  coat,  is  of  a  different  tempera- 
ment. He  says,  as  they  stand  upon  the  steps  watching  the 
young  couple  away,  that  she  has  a  pretty  figure,  hasn't  she, 
and  as  well  as  he  could  see  (for  she  held  her  head  down  com- 
ing out),  an  uncommon  pretty  face.  "  .Altogether,  Mrs.  Miff," 
says  Mr.  Sownds  with  a  relish,  "  she  is  what  you  may  call  a 
rosebud." 

Mrs.  Miff  assents  with  a  spare  nod  of  her  mortified  bonnet  ; 
but  ajiproves  of  this  so  little,  that  she  inwardly  resobes  she 
wouldn't  be  the  wife  of  Mr.  Sownds  for  any  money  he  could 
give  her,  Beadle  as  he  is. 


AXOTHF.R  WEnn/XG.  765 

And  what  arc  the  young  couple  saying  as  they  leave  the 
church,  and  go  out  at  the  gate  ? 

"  Dear  Walter,  thaok  you  !      I  can  go  away,  now,  happy." 

"  And  when  we  come  back,  Florence,  wc  will  come  and  see 
his  grave  again." 

Florence  lifts  her  eyes,  so  briglil  with  Ic.iis,  to  his  kind 
face  ;  and  claps  her  disengaged  hantl  on  that  other  modest  lit- 
tle hand  which  clasps  his  arm. 

"  It  is  very  early,  Walter,  and  the  streets  are  almost  empty 
yet.     Let  us  walk." 

"  But  you  will  be  so  tired  my  love," 

"  Oh  no  !  I  was  very  tired,  the  first  time  that  we  ever 
walked  together,  but  I  shall  not  be  so  to-day." 

And  thus — not  much  changed — she,  as  innocent  and  ear- 
nest-hearted— he,  as  frank,  as  hopeful,  and  more  proud  of  her 
— Florence  and  Walter,  on  their  bridal  morning,  walked  through 
the  streets  together. 

Not  even  in  that  childish  walk  of  long  ago,  were  they  so 
far  removed  from  all  the  world  about  them  as  to-day.  The 
childish  feet  of  long  ago  did  not  tread  such  enchanted  ground 
as  theirs  do  now.  The  confidence  and  love  of  children  may 
be  given  many  times,  and  will  spring  up  in  many  places  ;  but 
the  woman's  heart  of  Florence,  with  its  undivided  treasure, 
can  be  yielded  only  once,  and  under  slight  or  change,  can  only 
droop  and  die. 

I'hey  take  the  streets  that  are  the  quietest,  and  do  not  go 
near  that  in  which  her  old  home  stands.  It  is  a  fair,  warm 
summer  morning,  and  the  sun  shines  on  them,  as  they  walk 
towards  the  darkening  mist  that  overspreads  the  City.  Riches 
are  uncovering  in  shops  ;  jewels,  gold,  and  silver  flash  in  the 
goldsmith's  sunny  windows  ;  and  great  houses  cast  a  stately 
shade  upon  them  as  they  pass.  But  through  the  light,  and 
through  the  shade,  they  go  on  lovingly  together,  lost  to  every- 
thing around  ;  thinking  of  no  other  riches,  and  no  prouder 
home,  than  they  have  now  in  one  another. 

Gradually  they  come  into  the  darker,  narrower  streets, 
where  the  sun,  now  yellow,  and  now  red,  is  seen  through  the 
mist,  only  at  street  corners,  and  in  small  open  spaces  where 
there  is  a'trce,  or  one  of  the  innumerable  churches,  or  a  paved 
way  and  a  flight  of  steps,  or  a  curious  little  patch  of  garden,  or 
a  burying-ground,  where  the  few  tombs  and  tombstones,  are 
almos't  black.  Lovinj;ly  and  trustfully,  through  all  the  narrow 
yards  and  alleys  and  the  shady  streets,  Florence  goes,  clinr^ing 
to  his  nrm;  to  bo  his  wife, 


^66  DOM  BEY  AND  SO.V. 

Her  heart  beats  quicker  now,  for  Walter  tells  her  that  theil 
church  is  very  near.  They  pass  a  few  great  stacks  of  ware- 
houses, with  wagons,  at  the  doors,  and  birsy  carmen  stopping 
up  the  way — but  Florence  does  not  see  or  hear  them — and  then 
the  air  is  quiet,  and  the  day  is  darkened,  and  she  is  trembling 
in  a  church  whicli  has  a  strange  smell  like  a  cellar. 

The  sliabby  little  old  man,  ringer  of  the  disappointed  bell, 
is  standing  in  the  porch,  and  has  put  his  hat  in  the  font — for 
he  is  quite  at  home  there,  being  sexton.  He  ushers  ihem  into 
an  old  brown,  panelled,  dusty  vestry,  like  a  corner-cupboard 
with  the  shelves  taken  out  ;  where  the  wormy  registers  diffuse 
a  smell  like  faded  snuff,  which  has  set  the  tearful  Nipper 
sneezing. 

Youthful,  and  how  beautiful,  the  young  bride  looks,  in  this 
old  dusty  place,  with  no  kindred  object  near  her  but  her  iius- 
band.  There  is  a  dusty  old  clerk,  who  keeps  a  sort  of  evapo- 
rated news  shop  underneath  an  archway  opposite,  behind  a  per- 
fect fortification  of  posts.  There  is  a  dusty  old  pew-opener  who 
only  keeps  herself,  and  tinds  that  quite  enough  to  do.  There 
is  a  dusty  old  beadle  (tliese  are  Mr.  Toots's  beadle  and  pew- 
opener  of  last  Sunday),  who  has  something  to  do  with  a  Wor- 
shipful Company  who  have  got  a  hall  in  the  next  yard,  with  a 
stained-glass  window  in  it  that  no  mortal  ever  saw.  There  are 
dusty  wooden  ledges  and  cornices  poked  in  and  out  over  the 
altar,  and  over  the  screen  and  round  the  gallery,  and  over  the 
inscription  about  what  the  Master  and  Wardens  of  the  Wor- 
shipful Company  did  in  one  thousand  six  hundred  and  ninety- 
four.  There  are  dusty  old  sounding  boards  over  the  pulpit  and 
reading-desk,  looking  like  lids  lo  be  let  down  on  the  officiating 
ministers,  in  case  of  their  giving  offence.  There  is  every  pos 
sible  provision  for  the  accommodation  of  dust,  except  in  the 
churchyard,  where  llie  facilities  in  that  respect  are  very  hmited. 

The  Captain,  Uncle  Sol,  and  Mr.  Toots  are  come  ;  the 
clergyman  is  putting  on  Iiis  surplice  in  the  vestry,  wliilc  the 
clerk  walks  round  him,  blowing  the  dust  off  it  ,  and  the  briile 
and  bridegroom  stand  before  the  aUar.  There  is  no  brides 
mai<l,  unless  Susan  Nipper  is  one  ;  and  no  belter  father  than 
Capt.iin  Cuttle.  A  man  with  a  wooden  leg,  cliewing  a  faint 
apple  and  carrying  a  blue  bag  in  iiis  hand,  looks  in  to  see  what 
is  going  on  ;  but  finding  it  nothing  entertaining,  slumps  off 
again,  and  pegs  his  way  among  tlie  eciioes  out  of  doors. 

No  gracious  ray  of  light  is  seen  to  fall  on  Florence,  kneel- 
ing at  tlic  altar  with  her  timid  head  bowed  down.  The  morn- 
ing luminary  is  bwiil  out,  and  don't  shine  there.     There  is  a 


ANOTHER  WEDDING.  jSj 

meagre  tree  outside,  where  the  sparrows  are  chirping  a  little  ; 
and  there  is  a  blackbird  in  an  eyelet-hole  of  sun  in  a  dyer's 
garret,  over  against  the  window,  who  whistles  loudly  whilst  the 
service  is  penorniing  ;  and  there  is  the  man  with  the  wooden 
leg  stumping  away.  The  amens  of  the  dusty  clerk  appear,  like 
Macbeth's,  to  stick  in  his  throat  a  little  ,  but  Captain  Cuttle 
helps  him  out,  and  does  it  with  so  much  good  will  that  he  in- 
terpolates three  entirely  new  responses  of  tlial  word,  never  in- 
troduced into  the  service  before. 

They  are  married,  and  have  signed  their  names  in  one  of 
the  old  sneezy  registers,  and  the  clergyman's  surplice  is  restored 
to  the  dust,  and  the  clergyman  is  gone  home.  In  a  dark  cornei 
of  the  dark  church,  Florence  has  turned  to  Susan  Nipper,  and 
is  weeping  in  her  arms.  Mr.  Toots's  eyes  are  red.  The  Caf>- 
tain  lubricates  his  nose.  I'ncle  Sol  has  pulled  down  his  spec- 
tacles from  Ins  forehead,  and  walked  out  to  the  door. 

"God  bless  you,  Susan;  dearest  Susan!  If  you  ever  can 
bear  witness  to  the  love  1  have  for  Walter,  and  the  reason  that 
1  have  to  love  him,  do  it  for  his  sake.     Good-by  !     Good  by  ! '' 

They  have  thought  it  better  not  to  go  back  to  the  Midship- 
man, but  to  part  so  ;  a  coach  is  waiting  for  them,  near  at  hand. 

Miss  Nipper  cannot  speak  ;  she  only  sobs  and  chokes,  and 
hugs  her  mistress.  Mr.  Toots  advances,  urges  her  to  cheer 
up,  and  takes  charge  of  her.  Florence  gives  him  her  hand — 
gives  him,  in  the  fulness  of  her  heart,  her  lips— kisses  Uncle 
Sol,  and  Captain  Cuttle,  and  is  borne  away  by  her  young  hus- 
band. 

But  Susan  cannot  bear  that  Florence  should  go  away  with 
a  mournful  recollection  ot  her.  She  had  meant  to  be  so  differ- 
ent, that  she  reproaches  herself  bitterly.  Intent  on  making 
one  last  effort  to  redeem  her  character,  she  breaks  from  Mr, 
Toots  and  runs  away  to  find  the  coach,  and  show  a  parting 
smde.  The  Captain,  divining  her  object,  sets  off  after  her . 
,for  he  feels  it  his  duty  also  to  dismiss  them  with  a  cheer,  if 
possible.  Uncle  Sol  and  Mr.  Toots  are  left  behind  together, 
outside  the  church,  to  wait  for  them. 

The  coach  is  gone,  but  the  street  is  steep,  and  narrow,  and 
blocked  up,  and  Susan  can  see  it  at  a  stand  still  in  the  dis- 
tance, she  is  sure.  Captain  Cuttle  follows  her  as  .she  flies 
down  tlie  hill,  and  waves  his  gla/ed  hat  as  a  general  signal, 
which  may  attract  the  right  coach  and  which  may  not. 

Susan  outstrips  the  Captain,  and  comes  up  with  it.  She 
/ooks  in  at  the  window,  sees  Waller,  with  the  gentle  lace  bc- 
fide  him,  and  claps  her  hands  and  screams ; 


If 69  DOMBEY  AXD  SOiV. 

"  Miss  Floy,  my  darling  !  look  at  me  !  We  are  all  so  happy 
aow,  dear !     One  more  good-by,  my  precious,  one  more  !  " 

How  Susan  does  it,  she  don't  know,  but  she  reaches  to  the 
window,  kisses  her,  and  has  her  arms  about  hei  neck,  in  a 
moment. 

"We  are  all  so — so  happy  now,  my  dear  Miss  P'loy  !  "  says 
Susan,  with  a  suspicious  catching  in  her  breath.  "  You,  you 
won't  be  angry  with  me  now.     Now  will  yon  ?  " 

"  Angry,  Susan  !  " 

"  No,  no  ;  I  am  sure  you  won't.  I  say  you  won't,  my  pet, 
my  dearest !  "  exclaims  Susan  ;  "  and  here's  the  Captain,  too — 
your  friend  the  Captain,  you  know — to  say  good-by  once  more  !" 

"  Hooroar,  my  Heart's  Delight !  "  vociferates  the  Captain, 
with  a  countenance  of  strong  emotion.  "Hooroar,  Wal'r  my 
lad.     Hooroar  !     Hooroar  !  " 

What  with  the  young  husband  at ,  one  window,  and  the 
young  wife  at  the  other ;  the  Captain  hanging  on  at  this  door, 
and  Susan  Nipper  holding  fast  by  that  ;  the  coach  obliged  to 
go  on  whether  it  will  or  no,  and  all  the  othre  carts  and  coaches 
turbulent  because  it  hesitates ;  there  never  was  so  much  con- 
fusion on  four  wheels.  But  Susan  Nipper  gallantly  maintains 
her  point.  She  keeps  a  smiling  face  upon  her  mistress,  smil- 
ing through  her  tears,  until  the  last.  Even  when  she  is  left  be- 
hind, the  Captain  continues  to  appear  and  disappear  at  the 
door  crying  "  Hooroar,  my  lad  !  Hooroar,  my  Heart's  De- 
light !  "  with  his  shirt  collar  in  a  violent  state  of  agitation, 
until  It  is  hopeless  to  attempt  to  keep  up  with  the  coach  any 
longer.  Finally,  when  the  coach  is  gone,  Susan  Nipper,  bemg 
rejomed  by  the  Captain,  falls  uito  a  state  of  insensibility,  and  is 
taken  into  a  baker's  shop  to  recover. 

Uncle  Sol  and  Mr.  Toots  wait  patiently  in  the  churchyard, 
sitting  on  the  copmg-stone  of  the  railings,  until  Captain  Cuttle 
and  Susan  come  back.  Neither  being  at  all  desirous  to  speak, 
or  to  be  spoken  to,  they  are  excellent  company,  and  quite  satis 
fied.  When  they  all  arrive  again  at  the  little  Midshipman, 
and  sit  down  to  breakfast,  nobody  can  touch  a  morsel.  Cap- 
tain Cuttle  makes  a  feint  of  being  voracious  about  toast,  but 
gives  it  up  as  a  swindle  Mr.  Toots  ?tys,  after  breakfast,  he 
will  come  back  in  the  evening  ;  and  goes  wandering  about  the 
town  all  day,  with  a  vague  sensation  upon  him  as  if  he  hadn't 
been  to  bed  for  a  fortnight. 

There  is  a  strange  charm  in  the  house,  and  in  the  room,  in 
which  they  have  been  used  to  be  together,  and  out  of  which  so 
jpuch  is  gone.     It  aggravates,  and  yet  it  soothes,  the  sorrow  of 


ANOriiEK  WKDDJNC.  76^ 

tiie  sepanihon.  Mr.  Toots  tells  Susan  Nipper  when  ne  comes 
at  night,  (hat  he  hasn  t  been  so  wretched  all  day  lon<2;,  and  yet 
he  likes  it.  He  coiitides  m  Susan  Nipper,  being  alone  with 
her,  and  tells  her  what  his  feelings  were  when  she  gave  him 
that  candid  opinion  as  to  the  probability  ot  Miss  Dombey's 
ever  loving  him.  In  the  vein  of  conhdcnce  engendered  by 
these  coninion  recollections,  and  their  tears,  Mr.  Toots  pro- 
poses that  they  shall  go  out  together,  and  buy  something  fot 
supper.  Miss  Nipper  assenting^  they  buy  a  good  many  little 
things  ;  and,  with  the  aid  of  Mrs.  Richards,  set  the  supper  out 
quite  showily  before  the  Captain  and  Old  Sol  came  home. 

The  Captain  and  Old  Sol  have  been  on  board  the  ship,  and 
have  established  Di  there,  and  have  seen  the  chests  put  aboard. 
They  have  much  to  tell  about  the  popularity  of  Waller,  and 
the  comforts  he  will  have  about  him,  and  the  quiet  way  in 
which  it  seems  he  ha'^  been  working  early  and  late,  to  make 
his  cabin  what  the  Captain  calls  "  a  picter,"  to  surprise  his 
little  wife.  "A  admiral's  cabin,  mind  you,"  says  the  Captain, 
''ain't  more  trim," 

Hut  one  of  the  Captain's  chief  delights  is,  that  he  knows 
the  big  watch,  and  the  sugar-tongs,  and  teaspoons,  are^  on 
board ^  and  again  and  again  he  murmurs  to  himself,  "  Ed'ard 
Cuttle,  my  lad,  you  never  shaped  a  better  course  in  your  life 
than  when  you  made  that  there  little  property  over  jintly.  You 
see  how  the  land  bore,  Kd'ard,"  says  the  Captain,  "  and  it  does 
you  credit,  my  lad.  ' 

The  old  Instrument  Maker  is  more  distraught  and  misty 
than  he  used  to  be,  and  takes  the  marriage  and  tiie  parting 
very  much  to  heart  But  he  is  greatly  comforted  by  having 
his  old  ally,  Ned  Cuttle,  at  his  side  ;  and  he  sits  down  to  sup- 
per wiih  a  grateful  and  contented  face. 

'  My  boy  has  been  preserved  and  thrives,"  says  old  Sol 
Gills,  rubbing  his  hands.  "  What  right  have  I  to  be  otherwise 
than  thankful  and  happy?" 

The  Captain,  who  has  not  yet  taken  his  seat  at  the  table, 
but  who  has  been  fidgeting  about  for  some  time,  and  now 
stands  hesitating  in  his  place,  looks  doubtfully  at  Mr.  Gills, 
and  says: 

"  Sol  !  There's  the  last  bottle  of  the  old  Madeira  down 
below.  Would  you  wish  to  have  ic  up  to-night,  my  boy,  and 
drink  to  Wal'r  and  his  wife?  " 

The   Instrument-Maker,  looking  wistfully  at  the   Captain, 
puts  his  hand  into  the  breast-pocket  of  his  cofTce-colored  coat, 
brings  forth  his  pocket  book,  and  takes  a  letter  out 
U 


77©  DOMDEY  AND  S0A\ 

"  To  Mr.  Dombey,"  says  the  old  man.  "  From  Waltet 
To  be  sent  in  three  weeks'  time.     I'll  read  it. 

"  '  Sir.  I  am  married  to  your  daughter.  She  is  gone  with 
me  upon  a  distant  voyage.  To  be  devoted  to  her  is  to  have 
no  claim  on  her  or  you,  but  God  knows  that  I  am. 

"  *  Why,  loving  her  beyond  all  earthly  things,  I  have  yet, 
without  remorse,  united  her  to  the  uncertainties  and  dangers 
of  my  life,  I  will  not  say  to  you.  You  know  why,  and  you  are 
her  father. 

" '  Do  not  reproach  her.     She  has  never  reproached  you. 

"  *  I  do  not  think  or  hope  that  you  will  ever  forgive  me. 
There  is  nothing  I  expect  less.  But  if  an  hour  should  come 
■when  it  will  comfort  you  to  believe  that  Florence  has  some  one 
ever  near  to  her,  the  great  charge  of  whose  life  is  to  cancel  her 
remembrance  of  past  sorrow,  I  solemnly  assure  you,  you  may, 
in  that  hour,  rest  in  that  belief.'  "  , 

Solomon  puts  back  the  letter  carefully  in  his  pocket-book, 
and  puts  back  his  pocket-book  in  his  coat. 

"  We  won't  drink  the  last  bottle  of  the  old  Madeira  yet 
Ned,"  says  the  old  man  thoughtfully.     "  Not  yet." 

"  Not  yet,"  assents  the  Captain.     "  No.     Not  yet." 

Susan  and  Mr.  Toots  are  of  the  same  opinion.  After  a  si. 
lence  they  all  sit  down  to  supper,  and  drink  to  the  young  hus- 
band and  wife  in  something  else  ;  and  the  last  bottle  of  the  old 
Madeira  still  remains  among  its  dust  and  cobwebs,  undisturbed. 

A  few  days  have  elapsed,  and  a  stately  ship  is  out  at  sea, 
spreading  its  white  wings  to  the  favoring  wind. 

Upon  the  deck,  image  to  the  roughest  man  on  board  of 
something  that  is  graceful,  beautiful,  and  harmless — something 
that  it  is  good  and  pleasant  to  have  there,  and  that  should 
make  the  voyage  prosperous — is  Florence.  It  is  night,  and 
she  and  Walter  sit  alone,  watching  the  solemn  path  "of  light 
upon  the  sea  between  them  and  the  moon. 

At  length  she  cannot  see  it  plainly,  for  the  tears  that  fill 
her  eyes  ;  and  then  she  lays  her  head  down  on  his  breast,  and 
puts  her  arms  around  his  neck,  saying,  "  Oh,  \Valter,  dearest 
love,  I  am  so  hap]:)y  !  " 

Her  husband  holds  her  to  hislieart,  and  they  are  quiet,  and 
the  stately  ship  goes  on  serenely. 

"  As  I  hear  the  sea,"  says  Florence,  "  and  sit  watching  it, 
it  brings  so  many  days  into  my  mind.  It  makes  me  think  so 
much " 

"  Of  Paul,  my  love.      1  know  it  does." 


AFTER  A  LAPSE.  ^^, 

Of  I'aul  and  Walter.  And  the  voices  in  the  waves  are 
always  whisperin;;  to  Florence,  in  their  ceaseless  murmuring,',  of 
love— of  love,  eternal  and  ilhmitable,  not  bounded  by  the  con 
fines  of  the  world,  or  by  the  end  of  time,  but  raging  still  beyond 
the  sea,  beyond  the  sky,  to  the  invisible  country  far  away  1 


CHAPTER  LVIII. 

AFTER    A    LAPSE. 


The  sea  had  ebbed  and  flowed,  through  a  whole  year. 
Through  a  whole  year,  the  winds  and  clouds  had  come  and 
gone  ,  the  ceaseless  work  of  Time  had  been  performed,  in 
storm  and  sunshine  Through  a  whole  year,  the  tides  of  human 
chance  and  change  had  set  in  their  allotted  courses.  Through 
a  whole  year,  the  famous  House  of  Dor.ibey  and  Son  had 
fought  for  life,  against  cross  accidents,  doubtful  rumors,  unsuc- 
cessful ventures,  unpropitious  times,  and  most  of  all,  against 
the  infatuation  of  its  head,  who  would  not  contract  its  enter- 
prises by  a  hair's  breadth,  and  would  not  listen  to  a  word  of 
warning  that  the  shiji  he  strained  so  hard  against  the  storm, 
was  weak,  and  could  not  bear  it. 

The  year  was  out,  and  the  great  House  was  down. 

One  summer  afternoon  ;  a  year,  wanting  some  odd  days, 
after  the  marriage  in  the  City  church  ;  there  was  a  buzz  and 
whisper  upon  'Change  of  a  great  failure.  A  certain  cold,  proud 
man,  well  known  there,  was  not  there,  nor  was  he  represented 
there.  Ne.xt  day  it  was  noised  abroad  that  Dombey  and  Son 
had  stopped,  and  next  night  there  was  a  List  of  ]5ankrupts 
published,  headed  by  that  name. 

The  world  was  very  busy  now,  in  sooth,  and  had  a  deal  to 
say.  It  was  an  innocently  credulous  and  a  much  ill-used 
world.  It  was  a  world  in  which  there  was  no  other  .sort  of 
bankruptcy  whatever.  There  were  no  conspicuous  peoj^le  in  it, 
trading  far  and  wide  on  rotten  banks  of  religion,  patriotism, 
virtue,  honor.  There  was  no  amount  worth  mentioning  of 
mere  paper  in  circulation,  on  which  anybody  lived  pretty  hand- 
somely, promising  to  pay  great  sums  of  goodness  with  no 
effects.  There  were  no  shortcomings  anywhere,  in  anything 
but  money.  The  world  was  very  angry  indeed  ;  and  the  peojjle 
especially,  who,  in   a  worse  world,  might  have  been  supposed 


^^i 


DOAfliEV  AND  SOA^. 


to  be  bankrupt  traders  themselves  in  shows  and  pretences,  were 
observed  to  be  mightily  indignant. 

Here  was  a  new  inducement  to  dissipation,  presented  to  that 
sport  of  circumstances,  Mr.  Perch  the  messenger  !  It  was  ap- 
parently tlie  face  of  Mr.  Perch  to  be  always  waking  up,  and 
finding  himself  famous.  He  had  but  yesterday,  as  one  migli* 
say,  subsided  into  private  life  from  the  celebrity  of  the  elope- 
ment and  the  events  that  followed  it ;  and  now  he  was  made  a 
more  important  man  than  ever,  by  the  bankruptcy.  Gliding 
from  his  bracket  in  the  outer  office  where  he  now  sat,  watching 
the  strange  faces  of  accountants  and  others,  who  quickly  super- 
seded nearly  all  the  old  clerks,  Mr.  Perch  had  but  to  show  him- 
self in  the  court  outside,  or,  at  farthest,  in  the  bar  of  the  King's 
Arms,  to  be  asked  a  multitude  of  questions,  almost  certain  to 
include  that  interesting  question,  what  would  he  take  to  drink  ? 
Then  would  Mr.  Perch  descant  upon  the  hours  of  acute  unea- 
siness he  and  Mrs.  Perch  had  suffered  out  at  Ball's  Pond, 
when  they  first  suspected  "  things  was  going  wrong."  Then 
would  Mr.  Perch  relate  to  gaping  listeners,  in  a  low  voice, 
as  if  the  corpse  of  the  deceased  House  were  lying  unburied  in 
the  next  room,  how  Mrs.  Perch  had  first  come  to  surmise  that 
things  was  going  wrong  by  hearing  him  (Perch)  moaning  in  his 
sleep,  "  twelve  and  ninepence  in  the  pound,  twelve  and  nine- 
pence  in  the  pound  ! "  Which  act  of  somnambulism  he  sup- 
posed to  have  originated  in  the  impression  made  upon  him  by 
the  change  in  Mr.  Dombey's  face.  Then  would  he  inform 
them  how  he  had  once  said,  "  Might  I  make  so  bold  as  ask, 
Sir,  are  you  unhappy  in  your  mind?"  and  how  Mr.  Dombey 
had  replied,  "  My  faithful  Perch — but  no,  it  cannot  be  !  "  and 
with  that  had  struck  his  hand  upon  his  forehead,  and  said, 
"  Lea\  e  me,  Perch  !  "  Then,  in  sliort,  would  Mr.  Perch,  a 
victim  to  ills  position,  tell  all  manner  of  lies  ;  affecting  himself 
to  tears  by  those  that  were  of  a  moving  nature,  and  really 
believing  that  the  inventions  of  yesterday  had,  on  repetition,  a 
sort  of  truth  about  them  to  day. 

Mr.  Perch  always  closed  these  conferences  by  meekly 
remarking,  That,  of  course,  whatever  his  suspicions  might 
have  been  (as  if  he  had  ever  had  any)  it  wasn't  for  him  to  betray 
his  trust,  was  it }  Whicli  sentiment  (there  never  being  any 
creditors  present)  was  received  as  doing  great  honor  to  his  feel- 
ings. Thus,  he  generally  brought  away  a  soothed  conscience 
and  left  an  agreeable  impression  behind  him,  when  he  returned 
to  lus  bracket  :  again  to  sit  watciiing  the  strange  faces  of  th* 
accountants  and  others,  making  so  free  with  ilie  great  mysteries 


AFTER  A  LAPSE. 


in 


the  Books;  or  now  and  then  to  go  on  tiptoe  into  Mr.  Dombey's 
empty  room,  and  stir  the  fire  ;  or  to  take  an  airing  at  the  door, 
and  have  a  little  more  doleful  chat  v.iili  any  straggler  whom  lie 
knew  ;  or  to  propitiate,  with  various  small  attentions,  the  head 
accountant  :  from  whom  Mr.  Perch  had  expectations  of  a 
mcssengership  in  a  Fire  Office,  when  the  affairs  of  the  Mouse 
should  be  wound  up. 

To  Major  liagstock,  the  bankruptcy  was  quite  a  calamity. 
The  Major  was  not  a  sympathetic  character — his  attention  being 
wholly  concentrated  on  J.  B. — nor  was  he  a  man  subject  to 
lively  emotions,  except  in  the  physical  regards  of  gasping  and 
choking.  But  he  had  so  paraded  his  friend  Dombey  at  the 
club  ;  had  so  flourished  him  at  the  heads  of  the  members  in 
general,  and  so  put  them  down  by  continual  assertion  of  his 
riches  ;  that  the  club,  being  but  human,  was  delighted  to  retort 
upon  tlie  Major,  by  asking  him,  with  a  show  of  great  concern, 
whether  this  tremendous  smash  had  been  at  all  expected,  and 
how  his  friend  Dombey  bore  it.  To  such  questions,  the  Major, 
waxuig  very  purple,  would  reply  that  it  was  a  bad  world,  Sir, 
altogether  ;  that  Joey  knew  a  thing  or  two,  but  had  been  done, 
Sir,  done  like  an  infant  ;  that  if  you  had  foretold  this.  Sir,  to  J. 
Bagstock,  when  he  went  abroad  with  Dombey  and  was  chasing 
that  vagabond  up  and  down  France,  J.  Bagstock  would  have 
pooh-pooh'd  you — would  have  pooh-pooh'cl  you,  Sir,  by  the 
Lord  !  That  Joe  had  been  deceived.  Sir,  taken  in,  hoodwinked, 
blindfolded,  but  was  broad  awake  again  and  staring  ;  insomuch, 
Sir,  that  if  Joe's  father  were  to  rise  up  from  the  grave  to- 
morrow, he  wouldn't  trust  the  old  blade  with  a  penny  piece,  but 
would  tell  him  that  his  son  Josh  was  too  old  a  soldier  to  be 
done  again,  Sir.  That  he  was  a  suspicious,  crabl)ed,  cranky, 
used-up,  J  B.  infidel.  Sir  ;  and  that  if  it  were  consistent  with  the 
dignity  of  a  rough  and  tough  old  Major,  of  the  old  school,  who 
had  ha(;l  the  honor  of  being  personally  known  to,  and  com- 
mended by,  their  late  Royal  Highnesses  the  Dukes  of  Kent  and 
York,  to  retire  to  a  tub  and  live  in  it,  by  (^.ad  !  Sir,  he'd  have  a 
tub  in  Pall  Mall  to-morrow,  to  show  his  contempt  for  mankind  ! 
Of  all  this,  and  many  variations  of  the  same  tune,  the  Major 
would  deliver  himself  with  so  many  apoplectic  symptoms,  such 
rollings  of  his  head,  and  such  violent  growls  of  ill  usage  and 
resentment,  that  the  younger  members  of  the  club  surmised  he 
had  invested  money  in  his  friend  Dombey's  House,  and  lost  it ; 
though  the  older  soldiers  and  deeper  clogs,  who  knew  Joe 
better,  wouldn't  hear  of  such  a  thing.  The  unfortunate  Native, 
•j^cpressing  no  opinion,  sqlTcred  dreadfully ;  not  merely  in  hit 


774 


DOMDEY  AND  SOX. 


moral  feelings,  which  were  rejjularly  fusilladed  by  the  Majot 
every  hour  in  the  day,  and  riddled  through  and  through,  but  io 
liis  sensitivenes  to  bodily  knocks  and  bumps,  which  was  kept 
continually  on  the  stretch.  For  six  entire  weeks  after  the 
bankruptcy,  this  miserable  foreigner  lived  in  a  rainy  season  of 
boot-jacks  and  brushes. 

Airs.  Chick  had  three  ideas  upon  the  subject  of  the  terribU 
reverse.  The  first  was  that  she  could  not  understand  it.  The 
second,  that  her  brother  had  not  made  an  effort.  The  third, 
that  if  she  had  been  invited  to  dinner  on  the  day  of  that  first 
party,  it  never  would  have  happened  ;  and  that  she  had  said  so, 
at  the  time. 

Nobody's  opinion  stayed  the  misfortune,  lightened  it,  or 
made  it  hea\ier.  It  was  understood  that  the  affairs  of  the 
House  were  to  be  wound  up  as  they  best  could  be  ;  that  Mr. 
Dombey  freely  resigned  everything  he  had,  and  asked  for  no 
fa\or  from  any  one.  U'hat  any  resumption  of  the  business  was 
out  of  the  question,  as  he  would  listen  to  no  friendly  negotiation 
having  that  compromise  in  view  ;  that  he  had  relinquished  every 
post  of  trust  or  distinction  he  had  held,  as  a  man  respected 
among  merchants  ;  that  he  was  dying  according  to  some  ;  that  he 
was  going  melancholy  mad,  according  to  others  ;  that  he  was  a 
broken  man,  according  to  all. 

The  clerks  dispersed  after  holding  a  little  dinner  of  con- 
dolence among  themselves,  which  was  enlivened  by  comic 
singing,  and  went  off  admirably.  Some  took  places  abroad, 
and  some  engaged  in  other  Houses  at  home  ,  some  looked  up 
relations  in  the  country,  for  whom  they  suddenly  remembered 
they  had  a  particular  affection  ;  and  some  advertised  for  employ- 
ment in  the  newspapers.  Mr.  Perch  alone  remained  of  all  the 
late  establishment,  sitting  on  his  bracket  looking  at  the  ac- 
countants, or  starting  off  it,  to  propitiate  the  head  accountant, 
who  was  to  get  him  into  the  Fire  Office.  The  Counting  House 
soon  got  to  be  dirty  and  neglected.  The  principal  slipper  and 
dogs'  collar  seller,  at  the  corner  of  the  court,  would  have 
doubted  the  propriety  of  throwing  up  his  forefinger  to  the  brim 
of  his  hat,  any  more,  if  Mr.  Domlcy  had  appeared  there  now, 
and  the  ticket  porter,  with  his  hands  under  his  while  apron, 
moralized  good  sound  morality  about  ambition,  which  (he  ob- 
served) was  not,  in  his  opinion,  made  to  rhyme  to  perdition,  fof 
nothing. 

Mr.  Morfin,  the  hazel-eyed  bachelor,  with  the  hair  and 
whiskers  sprinkled  with  gray,  was  perhaps  the  only  person  withio 
the  atmosphere  of  the  House — its  head,  of  course,  excepted— 


AI-'Thh'  A  /.A /•sit.  ^75 

who  was  licartily  and  deeply  nfforled  by  tlie  disaster  llial  had 
befallen  it.  He  had  treated  Mr,  Doinbey  with  due  respect  and 
defeicnce  through  many  years,  but  he  had  never  disguised  his 
natural  character,  or  meanly  truckled  to  him,  or  pampered  his 
master  passion  for  the  advancement  of  his  own  purposes.  He 
had,  therefore,  no  self-disrespect  to  avenge  ;  no  long  tightened 
springs  to  release  with  a  quic^k  recoil.  He  worked  early  and 
late  to  unravel  whatever  was  complicated  or  difficult  in  the 
records  of  the  transactions  ol  the  House  ;  was  always  in  attend 
ance  to  explain  whatever  required  explanation  ,  sat  in  his  old 
room  sometimes  very  late  at  night,  studying  points  by  his 
mastery  of  which  he  could  spare  Mr.  Dombey  the  pain  of  being 
personally  referred  to  ;  and  then  would  go  home  to  Islington, 
and  calm  his  mind  by  producing  the  most  dismal  and  forlorn 
sounds  out  of  his  violoncello  before  going  to  bed. 

He  was  solacing  himself  with  this  melodious  grumbler  one 
evening,  and  having  been  much  dispirited  by  the  proceedings 
of  the  (lay,  was  scraping  consolation  out  of  its  deepest  notes, 
when  his  landlady  (who  was  fortunately  deaf,  and  had  no  other 
consciousness  of  these  performances  than  a  sensation  of  some- 
thing rumbling  in  her  bones)  announcetl  a  lady. 

"  In  mourning,"  she  said. 

The  violoncello  stopped  immediately  ;  and  the  performer, 
laying  it  on  the  sofa  with  great  tenderness  and  care,  made  a 
sign  that  the  lady  was  to  come  in.  He  followed  directly,  and 
met  Harriet  Carker  on  the  stair. 

"Alone!"  he  said,  "and  John  here  this  morning!  Is 
there  anything  the  matter,  my  dear?  But  no,"  he  added, 
"your  face  tells  quite  another  story." 

"  I  am  afraid  it  is  a  selfish  revelation  that  you  see  tliere, 
then,"  she  answered. 

"  It  is  a  very  pleasant  one,"  said  he;  "and,  if  selfish,  a 
novelty  too,  worth  seeing  in  you.     But  I  don't  believe  that." 

He  had  placed  a  chair  for  her  by  this  time,  and  sat  down 
opposite  ;  the  violoncello  lying  snugly  on  the  sofa  between 
them. 

"  You  will  not  be  surprised  at  my  coming  alone,  or  at  John's 
not  having  told  you  I  was  coming,"  said  Harriet,  "  and  you 
wi/I  believe  that,  when  I  tell  you  why  1  have  come.  May  i 
do  so  now  ?  " 

"  You  can  do  nothing  better." 

"  You  were  not  busy  .''  " 

He  pointed  to  the  violoncello  lying  on  the  sofa,  and  said, 
**I  have  been,  all  day.     Here's  my  witness.     I  have  been  con- 


y)(5  DOMBEY  AND  HON. 

fiding  all  my  cares  to  it.     I  wish  I  had  none  but   my  own  to 
tell." 

"  Is  the  House  at  an  end  ?  "  said  Harriet,  earnestly. 

"  Completely  at  an  end." 

"  Will  it  never  be  resumed  .-'  " 

"  Never." 

The  bright  expression  of  her  face  was  not  overshadowed  as 
her  lips  silently  repeated  the  word.  He  seemed  to  observe 
this  with  some  little  involuntary  surprise  :  and  said  again  : 

"Never.  You  remember  what  I  told  you.  It  has  been, 
all  along,  impossible  to  convince  him  ;  impossible  to  reason 
with  him  ;  sometimes,  impossible  even  to  approach  him  The 
worst  has  happened  •  and  the  House  has  fallen,  never  to  be 
built  up  any  more." 

"  And  Mr.  Dombey,  is  he  personally  ruined  ?" 

"  Ruined." 

"  Will  he  have  no  private  fortune  ?     Nothing  ?  " 

A  certain  eagerness  in  her  voice,  and  something  that  was 
almost  joyful  in  her  look,  seemed  to  surprise  him  more  and 
more  ;  to  disappoint  him  too,  and  jar  discordantly  against  his 
own  emotions  He  drummed  with  the  fingers  of  one  hand  on 
the  table,  looking  wistfully  at  her,  and  shaking  his  head,  said, 
after  a  pause ; 

"The  extent  of  Mr.  Dombey's  resources  is  not  accurately 
wifhin  my  knowledge  ;  but  though  they  are  doubtless  \ery 
large,  his  obligations  are  enormous.  He  is  a  gentleman  of 
high  honor  and  u'^tegrity.  Any  man  in  his  position  could,  and 
many  a  man  in  his  position  would,  have  saved  himself,  by 
making  terms  which  would  have  very  slightly,  almost  insensibly, 
increased  the  losses  of  those  who  had  had  dealings  with  him, 
and  left  him  a  remnant  to  live  upon.  Eut  he  is  resolved  on 
payment  to  the  last  farthing  of  his  means.  His  own  words  are, 
that  they  will  clear,  or  nearly  clear,  the  House,  ejid  that  no  one 
tan  lose  much.  Ah,  Miss  Harriet,  it  would  do  us  no  harm  to 
remember  oftener  than  we  do,  that  vices  are  sometimes  only 
virtues  carried  to  excess  !     His  pride  shows  well  in  this." 

She  heard  him  witii  little  or  no  change  in  her  expression, 
and  witli  a  divided  attention  that  showed  her  to  be  busy  with 
something  in  her  own  mind.  When  he  was  silent,  she  asked 
him  iuirricdly  : 

"  Have  you  seen  him  lately  .''  " 

"  No  one  sees  him.  When  this  crisis  of  his  affairs  renders 
it  necessary  for  him  to  come  out  of  his  house,  he  comes  out  tor 
the  occasion,  and  again  goes  home  and  shuts  himself  up,  and 


AFTER  A   LAPSE.  777 

will  see  no  one.  He  has  written  nic  a  letter,  acknowledging 
our  past  connection  in  higher  terms  than  it  deserved,  and  part- 
ing from  me.  I  am  delicate  of  obtruding  myself  upon  him  now, 
never  having  had  much  intercourse  witli  him  in  better  times; 
but  I  have  tried  to  do  so.  I  have  written,  gone  there,  entreated. 
Quite  in  vain." 

He  watched  her,  as  in  the  hope  that  she  would  testify  some 
greater  concern  than  she  liad  yet  shown  ;  and  spoke  gravely 
and  feelingly,  as  if  to  impress  her  the  more  ;  but  there  was  no 
change  in  her. 

"  Well,  well.  Miss  Harriet,"  he  said,  with  a  disappointed 
air,  "  this  is  not  to  the  purpose.  You  have  not  come  here  to 
hear  this.  Some  other  andpleasanter  theme  is  in  your  mind. 
Let  it  be  in  mine,  too,  and  we  shall  talk  upon  more  equal  terms. 
Come ! " 

"  No,  it  is  the  same  theme,"  returned  Harriet,  with  frank 
and  quick  surprise.  "  It  is  not  likely  that  it  should  be  .'  Is  it 
not  natural  that  John  and  I  should  have  been  thinking  and 
speaking  very  much  of  late  of  these  great  changes  }  Mr.  Dom- 
bey,  whom  he  served  so  many  years — you  know  upon  what 
terms — reduced,  as  you  describe  ;  and  we  quite  rich  !  " 

Good,  true  face,  as  that  face  of  hers  was,  and  pleasant  as 
it  had  been  to  him,  Mr.  Morfin,  the  hazel-eyed  bachelor,  since 
the  first  time  he  had  ever  looked  upon  it,  it  pleased  him  less  at 
that  moment,  lighted,  with  a  ray  of  exultation,  than  it  had  ever 
pleased  him  before. 

"  I  need  not  remind  you,"  said  Harriet,  casting  down  her 
eyes  upon  her  black  dress,  "  through  what  means  our  circum- 
stances changed.  You  have  not  forgoten  that  our  brother 
James,  upon  "that  dreadful  day,  left  no  will,  no  relations  but 
ourselves." 

The  face  was  pleasanter  to  him  now,  though  it  was  pale  and 
melancholy,  than  it  had  been  a  moment  since.  He  seemed  to 
breathe  more  cheerily. 

"You  know,"  she  said,  "our  history,  the  history  of  both 
my  brothers,  in  connection  with  the  unfortunate,  unhappy  gen- 
tleman, of  whom  you  have  spoken  so  truly.  You  know  how 
few  our  wants  are — John's  and  mine — and  what  little  use  we 
have  for  money,  after  the  life  we  have  led  together  for  so  many 
years  ;  and  now  that  he  is  earning  an  income  that  is  ample  for 
us,  through  your  kindness.  You  are  not  unprepared  to  hear 
what  favor  I  have  come  to  ask  of  you  ?  " 

"I  hardly  know.  I  was,  a  minute  ago.  Now,  t  think  1  am 
not." 


778  /?  OMBE  Y  A  ND  SON. 

"  Of  my  dead  brother  I  say  nothing.  If  the  dead  kno\f 
what  we  do — but  you  understand  me.  Of  my  Uving  brother  I 
could  say  much :  iDut  what  need  I  say  more,  than  that  this  act  of 
duty,  in  which  1  have  come  to  ask  your  indispensable  assistance, 
is  his  own,  and  that  he  cannot  rest  until  it  is  performed  !  " 

She  raised  her  eyes  again ;  and  the  light  of  exultation  in 
her  face  began  to  appear  beautiful,  in  the  observant  eyes  that 
watched  her. 

"Dear  Sir,"  she  went  on  to  say,  "it  must  be  done  very 
quietly  and  secretly.  Your  experience  and  knowledge  will 
point  out  a  way  of  doing  it.  Mr.  Dombey  may,  perhaps,  be  led 
to  believe  that  it  is  something  saved,  unexpectedly,  from  the 
wreck  of  his  fortunes;  or  that  it  is  a  voluntary  tribute  to  his 
honorable  and  upright  character,  from  some  of  those  with  wliom 
he  has  had  great  dealings ;  or  that  it  is  some  old  lost  debt 
repaid.  There  must  be  many  ways  of  doing  it.  I  know  you  will 
choose  the  best.  The  favor  I  have  come  to  ask  is,  that  you 
will  do  it  for  us  in  your  own  kind,  generous,  considerate  man- 
ner. That  you  will  never  speak  of  it  to  John,  whose  chief 
happiness  in  this  act  of  restitution  is  to  do  it  secretly,  unknown, 
and  unapproved  of  :  that  only  a  very  small  part  of  the  in- 
heritance may  be  reserved  to  us,  until  Mr.  Dombey  shall  have 
possessed  the  interest  of  the  rest  for  the  remainder  of  his  life  ; 
that  you  will  keep  our  secret,  faithfully — but  that  I  am  sure  you 
will ;  and  that,  from  this  time,  it  may  seldom  be  whispered, 
even  between  you  and  me,  but  may  live  in  my  thoughts  only 
as  a  new  reason  for  thankfulness  to  Heaven,  and  joy  and  pride 
in  my  brother." 

Such  a  look  of  exultation  there  may  be  on  Angels'  faces, 
when  the  one  repentant  sinner  enters  Ileaven,  among  ninety- 
nine  just  men.  It  was  not  dimmed  or  tarnished  by  the  joyful 
tears  that  filled  her  eyes,  but  was  the  brighter  for  them. 

"  My  dear  liarriet,"  said  Mr.  Morfin,  after  a  silence,  "  I  was 
not  prepared  for  this.  Do  I  understand  you  that  you  wish  to 
make  your  own  part  in  the  inheritance  available  for  your  good 
purpose,  as  well  as  John's  ? " 

"  Oh  yes,"  she  returned.  "\\'henwe  have  shared  every- 
thing together  for  so  long  a  time,  and  have  had  no  care,  liope, 
or  purpose  apart,  could  1  bear  to  be  excluded  from  my  share  in 
this?  May  1  not  urge  a  claim  to  be  my  brother's  partner  and 
companion  to  the  last .'  " 

"  Ileaven  forbid  that  I  should  disjiute  it !  "  he  replied. 

"\\^e  may  rely  on  your  friendly  help  ?  "  she  said.  "  I  know 
we  might  I " 


AFTFiR  A  I.ArSE. 


779 


"  I  should  be  a  worse  man  than, — timn  I  hope  I  am,  or 
would  willingly  believe  myself,  if  I  could  not  give  you  that  as- 
surance from  my  heart  and  soul.  Vou  may,  implicitly.  Upon 
my  honor,  I  will  keep  your  secret.  And  if  it  should  be  found 
that  Mr.  Dombey  is  so  reduced  as  I  fear  he  will  be,  actinp;  ou  a 
determination  that  there  seems  to  be  no  means  of  inlluencinp;,  I 
will  assist  you  to  accomplish  the  design,  on  which  you  and  John 
are  jointly  resoKed." 

She  gave  him  her  hand,  and  thanked  him  with  a  cordial, 
happy  face. 

"  Harriet,"  he  said,  detaining  it  in  his.  "To  speak  to  you 
of  the  worth  of  any  sacrifice  that  you  can  make  now — above 
all,  of  any  sacrifice  of  mere  money — would  be  idle  and  pre- 
sumptuous. To  put  before  you  any  appeal  to  reconsider  your 
purpose  or  to  set  narrow  limits  to  it,  would  be,  I  feel,  not  less 
so.  1  have  no  right  to  mar  the  great  end  of  a  great  history, 
by  any  obtrusion  of  my  own  weak  self.  I  have  every  right  to 
bend  my  head  before  what  you  confide  to  me,  satisfied  tliat  it 
comes  from  a  higher  and  better  source  of  inspiration  than  my 
poor  worldly  knowledge.  I  will  say  only  this  :  1  am  your  faith 
ful  steward  ;  and  I  would  rather  l)e  so,  and  your  chosen  friend, 
than  I  would  be  anybody  in  the  world,  except  yourself." 

She  thanked  him  again,  cordially,  and  wished  him  good- 
night. 

"Are  you  going  home  .?  "  he  said.     "  Let  me  go  with  you." 

"  Not  to-night.  I  am  not  going  home  now  ;  1  have  a  visit 
to  make  alone.     Will  you  come  to-morrow  ?  " 

"Well,  well,"  said  he,  "I'll  come  tomorrow.  In  the  mean 
time,  I'll  think  of  this,  and  how  we  can  best  proceed.  And 
perhaps  _;w///  think  of  it,  dear  Harriet,  and — and — think  of  me 
a  little  in  connection  with  it." 

He  handed  her  down  to  a  coach  she  had  in  waiting  at  the 
door  ;  and  if  his  landlady  had  not  been  deaf,  she  would  have 
heard  him  muttering  as  he  went  back  up  stairs,  when  the  coach 
had  driven  off,  that  we  were  creatures  of  habit,  and  it  was  a 
sorrowful  habit  to  be  an  old  bachelor. 

The  violoncello  lying  on  the  sofa  between  the  two  chairs, 
he  took  it  up  without  putting  away  the  vacant  chair,  and  sat  dron- 
ing on  it,  and  slowly  shaking  his  head  at  the  vacant  chair,  for  a 
long,  long  time.  The  expression  he  communicated  to  the  instru- 
ment at  first,  though  monstrously  pathetic  and  bland,  was  noth- 
ing to  the  expression  he  communicated  to  his  own  face,  and 
bestowed  upon  the  empty  chair  :  which  was  so  sincere,  that  he 
was  Qbliged  to  have  recourse  to  Captain  Cuttle's  remedv  JTiQrf 


;8o  DOMBEY  AXD  soy. 

than  once,  and  to  rub  his  face  with  his  sleeve.  By  degrees^ 
however,  the  violoncello,  in  unison  with  his  own  frame  of  mind, 
glided  melodiously  into  the  Harmonious  Ulacksmith,  which  he 
played  over  and  over  again,  until  his  ruddy  and  serene  face 
gleamed  like  true  metal  on  the  anvil  of  a  veritable  blacksmith. 
In  line,  the  violoncello  and  the  empty  chair  were  the  compan- 
ions of  his  bachelorhood  until  nearly  midnight  ;  and  when  he 
took  his  supper,  the  violoncello  set  up  on  end  in  the  sofa  corner, 
big  with  the  latent  harmony  of  a  whole  foundry  lull  of  har- 
monious blacksmiths,  seemed  to  ogle  the  empty  chair  out  of  its 
crooked  ev^es,  with  unutterable  intelligence. 

When  Harriet  left  the  house,  the  driver  of  her  hired  coach, 
taking  a  course  that  was  evidently  no  new  one  to  him,  went  in 
and  out  by  by-ways,  through  that  part  of  the  suburbs,  uniil  he 
arrived  at  some  open  ground,  where  there  were  a  few  quiet  little 
oid  houses  standing  among  gardens.  At  the  garden-gate  of  one 
of  these  he  stopped,  and  Harriet  alighted. 

Her  gentle  ringing  at  the  bell  was  responded  to  by  a  dolor- 
ous-looking woman,  of  light  complexion,  with  raised  eyebrows, 
and  head  drooping  on  one  side,  who  curtseyed  at  sight  of  her, 
and  conducted  her  across  the  garden  to  the  house. 

"  How  is  your  patient,  nurse,  to-night  ?  "  said  Harriet. 

"  In  a  poor  way.  Miss,  I  am  afraid.  Oh,  how  she  do  remind 
me,  sometimes,  of  my  uncle's  ]5etsy  Jane  !  "  returned  the 
woman  of  the  light  complexion,  in  a  sort  of  doleful  rapture. 

"  In  what  respect  ?  "  asked  Harriet. 

"Miss,  in  all  respects,"  replied  the  other,  "  except  that  she's 
grown  up,  and  Betsy  Jane,  when  at  death's  door,  was  but  a 
child." 

"  But  you  have  told  me  she  recovered,"  observed  Harriet 
mildly;  "so  there  is  the  more  reason  for  hope,  Mrs.  Wick- 
am." 

"Ah,  Miss,  hope  is  an  excellent  thing  for  such  as  has  the 
spirit  to  bear  it  !  "  said  Mrs.  Wickam,  shaking  her  head. 
"  My  own  spirits  is  not  equal  to  it,  but  I  don't  owe  it  any  grudge. 
I  envys  them  that  is  so  blest !  " 

"You  should  tiT  to  be  more  cheerful,"  remarked  Harriet. 

"Thank  you,  Miss,  1  am  sure,"  said  Mrs.  Wickam  grimly. 
"If  I  was  so  inclined,  the  loneliness  of  this  situation — you'll 
excuse  my  speaking  so  free — would  put  it  out  of  my  power  in 
four  and  twenty  hours  ;  but  1  an't  at  all.  I'd  rather  not.  The 
little  spirits  that  I  ever  had,  I  was  bereaved  of  at  Brighton  some 
few  years  ago,  and  I  think  I  feel  myself  (he  better  for  it." 

in  truth  this  was  the  very  Mrs.  Wickam  who  had  super- 


AFTER  A  LAPSE  781 

setled  Mrs.  Richards  as  the  nurse  of  little  Paul,  and  who  con- 
sidered herself  to  have  gained  the  loss  in  question,  under  the 
roof  of  the  amiable  Pipchin.  The  excellent  and  thougbtful 
old  system,  hallowcil  by  long  prescription,  which  lias  usually 
picked  out  from  the  rest  of  mankind  the  most  dreary  and 
uncomfortable  people  that  could  possibly  be  laid  hold  of 
to  act  as  instructors  of  youth,  finger-posts  to  the  virtues,  matrons, 
monitors,  attentUinls  on  sick  beds,  and  the  like,  had  established 
Mrs.  Wickam  in  very  good  business  as  a  nurse,  and  had  led 
to  her  serious  qualities  being  particularly  commended  by  an 
admiring  and  numerous  connection. 

Mrs.  Wickam,  with  her  eyebrows  elevated,  and  her  head 
on  one  side,  lighted  tlie  way  up  stairs  to  a  clean,  neat  chamber, 
opening  on  another  chamber  dimly  llgiited,  where  there  was  a 
bed.  in  the  first  room,  an  old  woman  sat  mechanically  staring 
out  at  the  open  window,  on  the  darkness.  In  the  second, 
stretched  upon  the  bed,  lay  the  shadow  of  a  figure  that  had 
spurned  the  wind  and  rain,  one  wintry  night  ;  hardly  to  be 
recognized  now,  but  by  the  long  black  hair  that  showed  so  very 
black  against  the  colorless  face,  and  all  the  white  things 
about  it. 

Oh,  the  strong  eyes,  and  the  weak  frame  !  The  eyes  that 
turned  so  eagerly  and  brightly  to  the  door  when  Harriet  came 
in;  the  feeble  head  that  could  not  raise  itself,  and  moved  so 
slowly  round  upon  its  pillow ! 

"Alice!"  said  the  visitor's  mild  voice,  "am  I  late  to- 
night ?  " 

"  You  always  seem  late,  but  are  always  early." 

Harriet  luul  sat  down  by  the  bedside  now,  and  put  her  hand 
upon  the  thin  hand  lying  there. 

"  You  are  better  ?  " 

Mrs.  Wickam,  standing  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  like  a  dis- 
consolate spectre,  most  decidedly  and  forcibly  shook  her  head 
to  negative  this  position. 

"  It  matters  very  little  !  "  said  Alice,  with  a  faint  smile. 
"  Better  or  worse  to-day,  is  but  a  day's  difference — perhaps  not 
so  much." 

Mrs.  Wickam,  as  a  serious  character,  expressed  her  ap- 
proval with  a  groan  ;  and  having  made  some  cold  dabs  at  the 
bottom  of  the  bed-clothes,  as  feeling  for  the  patient's  feet  and 
expecting  to  fnid  them  stony,  went  clinking  among  the  medi- 
cine bottles  on  the  table,  as  who  should  say,  "while  we  art 
here,  let  us  repeat  the  mixture  as  before." 

"  No,"  said  Alice,  whispering  to  her  visitor,  "evil  courses 


^^2  DOMm-.V  AM)  .KO.V. 

and  remorse,  travel,  want,  and  weather,  storm  within,  and  stonn 
without,  liave  worn  my  life  away.  It  will  not  last  much 
longer." 

She  drew  the  hand  up  as  she  spoke,  and  laid  her  face 
against  it. 

"  I  lie  here,  sometimes,  thinking  I  should  like  to  live  until 
I  had  had  a  little  time  to  show  you  how  grateful  I  could  be ! 
It  is  a  weakness,  and  soon  passes.  Better  for  you  as  it  is. 
Better  for  me  !  " 

How  different  her  hold  uj^on  the  hand,  from  what  it  had 
been  when  she  took  it  by  the  lirc'side  on  the  bleak  winter  even- 
ing !  Scorn,  rage,  defiance,  recklessness,  look  here  !  This  is 
the  end. 

Mrs.  Wickam  having  clinked  sufficiently  among  the  bottles, 
now  produced  the  mixture.  Mrs.  Wickam  looked  hard  at  her 
patient  in  the  act  of  drinking,  screwed  her  mouth  up  tight,  her 
eyebrows  also,  and  shook  her  head,  expressing  that  tortures 
shouldn't  make  her  say  it  was  a  hopeless  case.  Mrs.  Wickam 
then  sprinkled  a  little  cooling-stuff  about  the  room,  with  the 
air  of  a  female  grave-digger,  wlio  was  strewing  ashes  on  ashes, 
dust  on  dust — for  she  was  a  serious  character — and  withdrew 
to  partake  of  certain  funeral  baked  meats  down  stairs. 

"  How  long  is  it,"  asked  Alice,  "since  I  went  ro  you  and 
told  you  what  1  had  done,  and  when  you  were  advised  it  was 
too  late  for  any  one  to  follow  ?  " 

"  It  is  a  year  and  more,"  said  Harriet. 

"  A  year  and  more,"  said  Alice,  thoughtfully  intent  upon  her 
face.     "  Months  upon  months  since  you  brought  me  here  !  " 

Harriet  answered  "  Yes." 

"  Brought  me  here,  by  force  of  gentleness  and  kindness. 
Me  !  "  said  Alice,  shrinking  with  her  face  behind  the  hand, 
"  and  made  me  human  by  woman's  looks  and  words,  and 
angel's  deeds  !  " 

Harriet  bending  over  her,  composed  and  soothed  her.  Ry 
and  by,  Alice  lying  as  before,  with  the  hand  against  her  face, 
asked  to  have  her  mother  called. 

Harriet  called  to  her  more  than  once,  but  tlie  old  woman 
was  so  absorbed  looking  out  at  the  open  window  on  the  dark- 
ness, that  she  did  not  hear.  It  was  not  until  Harriet  went  to 
her  and  touched  her,  that  she  rose  up,  and  came. 

"  Mother,"  said  Alice,  taking  the  hand  again,  and  fixing  her 
lustrous  eyes  lo\ingly  upon  her  visitor,  while  she  merely  ad- 
dressed a  motion  of  her  finger  to  the  old  woman,  "tell  her 
what  you  know," 


Ai-rm^  A  i.Al:sF..  ^^^ 

•To-nip;Iit,  my  dear)'  ?  " 

"  Ay,  mother,"  answered  Alice,  faintly  and  solemnly,  "  to- 
night !  " 

The  old  woman,  whose  wits  appeared  disordered  hy  alarm, 
remorse,  or  grief,  came  creeping  along  the  side  of  the  bed,  op- 
posite to  that  on  which  Harriet  sat  ;  and  kneeling  down,  so  as 
to  bring  her  withered  face  upon  a  level  with  the  coverlet,  and 
stretching  out  her  hand,  so  as  to  touch  her  daughter's  arm, 
began  : 

"  My  handsome  gal — " 

Heaven  what  a  cry  was  that,  with  which  she  stopped  there, 
gazing  at  the  poor  form  lying  on  the  bed  ! 

_  "  Changed,  long  ago,  mother  !     Withered,   long  ago,"  said 
Alice,  without  looking  at  her.     "  Don't  grieve  for  that  now." 

— "  My  daughter,"  faltered  the  old  woman,  "my  gal  who'll 
soon  get  better,  and  shame  'em  all  with  her  good  looks." 

Alice  smiled  mournfully  at  Harriet,  and  fondled  her  hand  a 
little  closer,  but  said  nothing. 

"Who'll  soon  get  better,  I  say,"  repeated  the  old  woman, 
menacing  the  vacant  air  with  her  shrivelled  fist,  "and  who'll 
shame  'em  all  with  her  good  looks — she  will.  I  say  she  will ! 
she  shall  ! — "  as  if  she  were  in  passionate  contention  with 
some  unseen  opponent  at  the  bedside,  who  contradicted  her — 
"  my  daughter  has  been  turned  away  from,  and  cast  out,  but 
she  could  boast  relationship  to  proud  folks  too,  if  she  chose. 
Ah !  To  proud  folks  !  There's  relationship  without  your 
clergy  and  your  wedding  rings — they  may  make  it,  but  they 
can't  break  it — and  my  daughter's  well  related.  Show  me  Mrs. 
Dombey,  and  I'll  show  you  my  Alice's  first  cousin." 

Harriet  glanced  from  the  old  woman  to  the  lustrous  eyes 
intent  upon  her  face,  and  derived  corroboration  from  them. 

"What  !  "  cried  the  old  woman,  her  nodding  head  bridling 
with  a  ghastly  vanity  ;  "  Though  I  am  old  and  ugly  now,— much 
older  by  life  and  habit  than  years  though,— I  was  once  as 
young  as  any.  Ah  !  as  pretty  too,  as  many  I  I  was  a  fresh 
country  wench  in  my  time,  darling,"  stretching  out  her  arm  to 
Harriet,  across  the  bed,  "and  looked  it,  too.  Down  in  my 
country,  ^^rs.  Dombcy's  father  and  his  brother  were  the  gayest 
gentlemen  and  the  best-liked  that  came  a  visiting  from  London 
• — they  have  long  been  dead,  though  !  Lord,  Lord,  this  long 
while  !  The  brother,  who  was  my  Ally's  father,  longest  of  the 
two." 

She  raised  her  head  a  little,  and  peered  at  her  daughter's 
face ;  as  if  from  the  remembrance  of  her  own  youth,  she  had 


^§4  DOM  BE  V  AND  SO.^. 

flown  to  the  remembrance  of  her  child's.  Then,  suddenly,  she 
laid  her  face  down  on  the  bed,  and  shut  her  heai  up  in  her 
hands  and  arms. 

"  They  were  as  like,"  said  the  old  woman,  without  lookinj; 
up,  "  as  you  could  see  two  brothers,  so  near  an  age — there 
wasn't  much  more  than  a  year  between  them,  as  I  recollect — 
and  if  you  could  have  seen  my  gal,  as  I  have  seen  her  once, 
side  by  side  with  the  other's  daughter,  you'd  have  seen,  for  all 
the  dilTcrence  of  dress  and  life,  that  they  were  like  each  other. 
Oh  !  is  the  likeness  gone,  and  is  it  my  gal — only  my  gal — that's 
to  change  so  !  " 

"We  shall  all  change,  mother,  in  our  turn,"  said  Alice. 

"  Turn!  "  cried  the  old  woman,  "but  why  not  hers  as  soon 
as  my  gal's !  The  mother  must  have  changed — she  looked  as 
old  as  me,  and  full  as  wrinkled  through  her  paint — but  sJu-  was 
handsome.  What  have  1  done,  I,  what  have  /  done  worse 
than  her,  that  only  my  gal  is  to  lie  there  fading  !  " 

With  another  of  those  wild  cries,  she  went  running  out  into 
the  room  from  which  she  had  come  ;  but  immediately,  in  her 
uncertain  mood,  returned,  and  creeping  up  to  Harriet,  said : 

"That's  what  Alice  bade  me  tell  you,  deary.  That's  all. 
I  found  it  out  when  I  began  to  ask  who  she  was,  and  all  about 
her,  away  in  Warwickshire  there,  one  summer  time.  Such  rela- 
tions was  no  good  to  me,  then.  They  wouldn't  have  owned 
me,  and  had  nothing  to  give  me.  I  should  have  asked  'em, 
maybe,  for  a  little  money,  afterwards,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  my 
Alice  ;  she'd  a'most  have  killed  me,  if  I  had,  I  think.  She  was 
as  proud  as  t'other  in  her  way,"  said  the  old  woman,  touching 
the  face  of  her  daughter  fearfully,  and  withdrawing  her  hand, 
"  for  all  she's  so  quiet  now ;  but  she'll  shame  'em  with  her 
good  looks  yet.  Ha,  ha  !  Shell  shame  'em,  will  my  handsome 
daughter  !  " 

Her  laugh,  as  she  retreated,  was  worse  than  her  cry;  worse 
than  the  burst  of  imbecile  lamentation  in  which  it  ended  ;  worse 
than  the  doling  air  with  which  she  sat  down  in  her  old  seat, 
and  stared  out  at  the  darkness. 

The  eyes  of  Alice  had  all  this  time  been  fixed  on  Harriet, 
whose  hand  she  had  never  released.     She  said  now  : 

"  I  have  felt,  lying  here,  that  I  should  like  you  to  know  this. 
It  might  explain,  I  have  thought,  something  that  used  to  help  to 
harden  me.  I  have  heard  so  much,  in  my  wrong  iloing.  of  my 
neglected  duty,  that  I  took  up  with  the  belief  that  duty  had  not 
been  done  to  me,  and  that  as  the  seed  was  sown,  the  harvest 
grew.     I  somehow  made  it  out  that  when  ladies  had  bad  homes 


A  ITER  A  LAPSE.  7R5 

and  mothers,  they  went  wrong  in  their  way,  too;  but  that  their 
way  was  not  so  foul  a  one  as  niiue,  and  they  had  need  to  bless 
God  lor  it.  That  is  all  past,  it  is  like  a  dream,  now,  which  I 
cannot  quite  remember  or  understand.  It  has  been  more  and 
more  like  a  dream,  everyday,  since  you  began  to  sit  here,  and  to 
read  to  me.  I  only  tell  it  you,  as  1  can  recollect  it.  Will  you 
read  to  me  a  little  more  ?  " 

Harriet  was  withilrawing  iier  iiand  to  open  the  book,  when 
Alice  detained  it  for  a  moment 

"You  will  not  forget  my  mother?  I  forgive  her,  if  I  have 
any  cause.  I  know  that  she  forgives  me,  and  is  sorry  in  her 
heart.     You  will  not  forget  her.? '' 

"  Never,  Alice  !  ' 

"  A  moment  yet.  Lay  my  head  so,  dear,  that  as  you  read  I 
may  see  the  words  m  your  kind  face." 

Harriet  complied  and  read — read  the  eternal  book  for  all 
the  weary  and  the  heavy  laden  ;  for  all  the  wretched,  fallen,  and 
neglected  of  this  earth— read  the  blessed  history,  in  which  the 
blind,  lame,  palsied  beggar,  the  criminal,  the  woman  stained  with 
shame,  the  shunned  of  all  our  dainty  clay,  has  each  a  portion, 
that  no  human  pride,  indifference,  or  sophistry,  through  all  the 
ages  that  this  world  shall  last,  can  take  away,  or  by  the  thou- 
sandth atom  of  a  grain  reduce — read  the  ministry  of  Him  who, 
through  the  round  of  human  life,  and  all  its  hopes  and  gricf.s, 
from  birth  to  death,  from  infancy  to  age,  had  sweet  compassion 
for,  and  interest  in,  its  every  scene  and  stage,  its  every  suffering 
and  sorrow. 

"  I  shall  come,"  said  Harriet,  when  sJie  shut  the  book,  "  very 
early  in  the  morning." 

The  lustrous  eyes,  yet  fixed  upon  her  face,  closed  for  a  mo- 
ment, then  opened  ;  and  Alice  kissed  and  blest  her. 

The  same  eyes  followed  her  to  the  door  ;  and  in  their  light, 
and  on  the  tranquil  face,  there  was  a  smile  when  it  was  closed. 

They  never  turned  away.  She  laid  her  hand  upon  her  breast, 
murmuring  the  sacred  name  that  had  been  read  to  her ;  and 
life  passed  from  her  face,  like  light  removed. 

Nothing  lay  there,  any  longer,  but  the  ruin  of  the  mortal 
house  on  which  the  rain  had  beaten,  and  the  black  hair  that  had 
fluttered  in  the  wintry  wind. 


Iftft.  DOM  BEY  A.\D  SON. 


CHAPTER  LIX. 


RETRIBUTION, 


Changes  have  come  again  upon  the  great  house  in  tlic  \^^ 
dull  street,  once  the  scene  of  Florence's  childhood  and  loi-cu 
ness.  It  is  a  great  house  still,  proof  against  wind  and  weather, 
without  breaches  in  the  roof,  or  shattered  windows,  or  diia):)i 
dated  walls  ;  but  it  is  a  ruin  none  the  less,  and  the  rats  fly  from 
it. 

Mr.  Towlinson  and  company  are,  at  first  incredulous  in  re- 
spect of  the  shapeless  rumors  that  they  hear.  Cook  says  our 
people's  credit  ain"t  so  easy  shook  as  that  comes  to,  thank  God  ; 
and  Mr.  Towlinson  expects  lo  hear  it  reported  that  the  Bank  of 
iMigland's  a  going  to  break,  or  the  jewels  in  the  Tower  lo  be  sold 
up.  Ijut,  next  comes  the  Gazette,  and  Mr.  Perch  •  and  Mr. 
Perch  brings  Mrs.  Perch  to  talk  it  over  in  the  kitchen,  and  to 
spend  a  pleasant  evening. 

As  soon  as  there  is  no  doubt  about  it,  Mr.  Towlinson's  main 
anxiety  is  that  the  failure  should  be  a  good  round  one — not 
less  than  a  hundred  thousand  pound.  Mr.  Perch  don't  think 
himself  that  a  hundred  thousand  pound  will  nearly  co\er  it. 
Tlie  women,  led  by  Mrs.  Perch  and  Cook,  often  repeat  "a  hun- 
dred thou-sand  pound!"  with  awful  satisfaction — as  if  handling 
the  words  were  like  handling  the  money  ;  and  the  housemaid, 
who  has  her  eye  on  Mr,  Towlinson,  wishes  she  had  only  a 
hundredtli  part  of  the  sum  to  bestow  on  the  man  of  her  choice 
Mr.  Towlinson,  still  mindful  of  his  old  wrong,  opines  that  a 
foreigner  would  hardly  know  what  to  do  with  so  much  money, 
unless  he  s])ent  it  on  his  whiskers  ;  which  bitter  sarcasm  causes 
the  housemaid  to  withdraw  in  tears. 

But  not  to  remain  long  absent ;  for  Cook,  who  had  the  rep- 
utation of  being  extremely  good  hearted,  says,  whatever  they  do, 
let  'em  stand  by  one  another  now,  Towlinson,  for  there's  no  tell- 
ing how  soon  they  may  be  divided.  They  have  been  in  that 
house  (says  Cook)  through  a  funeral,  a  wedding,  and  a  running- 
away  ;  and  let  it  not  be  said  that  liiey  couldn't  agree  among 
themselves  at  such  a  time  as  the  present.  Mrs.  Perch  is  im- 
mensely adected  by  tliis  moving  address,  and  openly  remarks 
that  Cook  is  an  angel,     Mr.  Towlinson  replies  to  Cook,  far  be 


KETRinUTION.  787 

it  from  him  to  stand  in  the  way  of  that  good  fcclin^^  w'l.ieh  ho 
could  wish  to  sec  ;  and  adjourning  in  quest  of  tlie  housemaid, 
and  presently  returning  witii  that  young  lady  on  his  arm,  |i> 
forms  the  kitchen  that  foreigners  is  only  his  fun,  and  that  him 
and  Anne  have  now  resolved  to  take  one  another  for  better  for 
worse,  and  to  settle  in  Oxford  Market  in  the  general  green 
grocery  and  herb  and  leech  line,  where  your  kind  favors  is 
particular  requested.  This  announcement  is  received  with  ac- 
clamation ;  and  Mrs.  Perch,  projecting  her  soul  into  futuiity, 
says,  "girls,"  in  Cook's  ear,  in  a  solemn  whisper. 

Misfortune  in  the  family  without  feasting,  in  these  lower 
regions,  couldn't  be.  Therefore  Cook  tosses  up  a  hot  dish  or 
two  for  supper,  and  Mr.  Towlinson  compounds  a  lobster  salad 
to  be  devoted  to  the  same  hospitable  purpose.  Kven  Mrs.  Pij)- 
chin,  agitated  by  the  occasion,  rings  her  bt.-ll,  and  sends  ilown 
word  that  she  requests  to  have  tliat  little  bit  of  sweetbreail  that 
was  left,  warmed  up  for  her  supper,  and  servt  to  her  on  a  tray 
with  about  a  quarter  of  a  tumbler-full  of  mulled  sherry  ;  for  she 
feels  poorly. 

There  is  a  little  talk  about  Mr.  Dombcy,  but  ver)'  little.  It 
is  chiefly  speculation  as  to  how  long  he  has  known  that  this  was 
going  to  happen.  Cook  says  shrewdly,  "  Oh  a  long  time,  bless 
you  !  Take  your  oath  of  that."  And  reference  being  made  to 
Mr.  Perch,  he  confirms  her  view  of  the  case.  Somebody  won- 
ders what  he'll  do,  and  whether  he'll  go  out  in  any  situation. 
Mr.  Towlinson  thinks  not,  and  hints  at  a  refuge  in  one  of  them 
gen-teel  almshouses  of  the  better  kind.  "  Ah,  where  he'll  have 
his  little  garden  you  know,"  says  Cook  plaintively,  "  and  bring 
up  sweet  peas  in  the  spring."  "  Exactly  so,"  says  Mr.  Towlin- 
son, "  and  be  one  of  the  IJrethren  of  something  or  another," 
"  We  are  all  brethren,"  says  Mrs.  Perch,  in  a  pause  of  her  drink. 
"Except  the  sisters,"  says  Mr.  Perch.  "How  are  the  mighty 
fallen  1  "  remarks  Cook.  "  Pride  shall  have  a  fall,  and  it  always 
was  and  will  be  so  !  "  observes  the  housemaid. 

It  is  wonderful  how  good  they  feel,  in  making  these  reflec- 
tions ;  and  what  a  Christian  unanimity  they  are  sensible  of,  in 
bearing  the  common  shock  with  resignation.  There  is  only  one 
interruption  to  this  excellent  state  of  mind,  which  is  occasioned 
by  a  young  kitchen-maid  of  inferior  rank — in  black  stockings — 
who,  having  sat  with  her  mouth  open  for  a  longtime,  unexpect- 
edly discharges  from  it  words  to  this  effect,  "  Suppose  the 
wages  shouldn't  be  paid  1  "  The  company  sit  for  a  moment 
speechless  ;  but  Cook  recovering  first,  turns_  upon  the  young 
»Voman,  and  requests  to  know  hosv  she  dares  insult  the  family 


j^$  DOM  BE  Y  A  .YD  SON. 

whose  bread  she  eats,  by  such  a  dislioncst  supposition,  and 
whether  she  thinks  that  anybody,  with  a  scrap  of  honor  left, 
could  deprive  poor  servants  of  their  pittance  ?  "  Because  if 
t/'iaf  is  your  religious  feelings,  Mary  Daws,"  says  Cook  warmly, 
"I  don't  know  where  you  mean  to  go  to." 

Mr.  Towlinson  don't  know  either  ;  nor  anybody  ;  and  the 
young  kitchen-maid,  appearing  not  to  know  exactly,  herself,  and 
scouted  by  the  general  voice,  is  covered  with  confusion,  as  with 
a  garment. 

After  a  few  days,  strange  people  begin  to  call  at  the  house, 
and  to  make  appointments  with  one  another  in  the  dining-room, 
as  if  they  lived  there.  Especially,  there  is  a  gentleman,  of  a 
Mosaic  Arabian  cast  of  countenance,  with  a  very  massive  watch- 
guard,  who  whistles  in  the  drawing-room,  and,  while  he  is  wait- 
ing for  the  other  gentleman,  who  always  has  pen  and  ink  in  his 
pocket,  asks  Mr.  'rowlinson  (by  the  easy  name  of  "Old  Cock,") 
.f  he  happens  to  know  what  the  figure  of  them  crimson  and  gold 
hangings  might  have  been,  when  new  bought.  The  callers  and 
appointments  in  the  dining-room  become  more  numerous  cvL'ry 
day,  and  every  gentleman  .seems  to  have  pen  and  ink  in  his 
pocket,  and  to  have  some  occasion  to  use  it.  At  last  it  is  said 
that  there  is  going  to  be  a  Sale  ;  and  then  more  people  arrive, 
with  pen  and  ink  in  their  pockets,  commanding  a  detachment 
of  men  with  carpet  caps,  who  immediately  begin  to  pull  up  the 
carpets,  and  knock  the  furniture  about,  and  to  print  olT  thou- 
sands of  impressions  of  their  shoes  upon  the  hall  and  stair- 
case. 

The  council  down  stairs  are  in  full  conclave  all  this  time, 
and,  having  nothing  to  do,  perform  perfect  feats  of  eating.  At 
length,  they  are  one  day  sunnnoned  in  a  body  to  Mrs.  Pipchin's 
room,  and  thus  addressed  by  the  fair  Peruvian  : 

"  Your  master's  in  difficuliies,"  says  Mrs.  Pipchin,  tartly. 
*'  You  know  that,  I  suppose  ?  " 

Mr.  Towlinson,  as  spokesman,  admits  a  general  knowledge 
of  the  fact. 

"  And  you're  all  on  the  look-out  for  yourselves,  I  warrant 
you,"  says  Mrs.  Pipchin,  shaking  her  liead  at  them. 

A  shrill  voice  from  the  rear  exclaims,  "  No  more  than  vour- 
self!" 

"  That's  your  opinion,  Mrs.  Impudence,  is  it  ?  "  says  the  ire- 
ful Pipchin,  looking  with  a  fiery  eye  over  the  intermediate  heads. 

*'  Ves,  Mrs.  Pipchin,  it  is,"  replies  Cook,  advancing.  "And 
what  tlien,  pray  ?  " 

"  U'hy,  then  you  may  go  as  soon  as  you  like,"  says  Mrs.  Pip* 


Rr-.TRfnurroM.  ^y^ 

chin.  "The  sooner  the  belter  ;  and  I  Iiope  I  shall  ntvcr  see 
your  face  aj^ain." 

With  this  the  doughty  Pipchin  produces  a  canvas  bag  ;  and 
tells  her  wages  out  to  that  day,  and  a  month  beyond  it  :  and 
clutches  tlie  money  tight  until  a  receipt  for  the  same  is  duly 
signed,  to  the  last  upstroke  ;  when  she  grudgingly  lets  it  go. 
This  form  of  proceeding  Mrs.  Pipchin  repeats  with  every  mem- 
ber of  the  household,  until  all  are  paid. 

"  Now  those  that  choose  can  go  about  their  business,"  says 
Mrs.  Pipchin,  "  and  those  that  choose  can  stay  here  on  board 
wages  for  a  week  or  so,  and  make  themselves  useful.  Except," 
says  the  inflammable  Pipchin,  "  that  slut  of  a  cook,  who'll  go 
immediately." 

"That,"  says  Cook,  "she  certainly  will  !  I  wish  you  good 
day,  Mrs.  Pipchin,  and  sincerely  wish  I  could  compliment  you 
on  the  sweetness  of  your  appearance  !  " 

"  Get  along  with  you,"  says  Mrs.  Pipchin,  stamping  her  foot. 

Cook  sails  off  with  an  air  of  beneficent  dignity,  highly  ex- 
asperating to  Mrs.  Pipchin,  and  is  shortly  joined  below  stair* 
by  the  rest  of  the  confederation. 

Mr.  Towlinson  then  says  that,  in  the  first  place,  he  would 
beg  to  propose  a  little  snack  of  something  to  eat ;  and  over  that 
snack  would  desire  to  olTer  a  suggestion  which  he  thinks  will 
meet  the  position  in  which  they  find  themselves.  The  refresh- 
ment being  produced,  and  very  heartily  partaken  of,  Mr.  Tow- 
linson's  suggestion  is,  in  effect,  that  Cook  is  going,  and  that  if 
we  are  not  true  to  ourselves,  nobody  will  be  true  to  us.  That 
they  have  lived  in  that  house  a  long  time,  and  exerted  them- 
selves very  much  to  be  sociable  together.  (At  this,  Cook  says, 
with  emotion,  "  Hear,  hear  ! "  and  Mrs.  Perch,  who  is  there 
again,  and  full  to  the  throat,  sheds  tears.)  And  that  he  thinks, 
at  the  present  time,  the  feeling  ought  to  be  '  Co  one,  go  all  !  ' 
The  housemaid  is  much  affected  by  tiiis  generous  sentiment,  and 
warmly  seconds  it.  Cook  says  she  feels  it's  right,  and  only 
hopes  it's  not  done  as  a  compliment  to  her,  but  from  a  sense  of 
duty.  Mr.  Towlinson  replies,  from  a  sense  of  duty  ;  and  that 
now  he  is  driven  to  express  his  opinions,  he  will  openly  say,  that 
he  does  not  think  it  over-respectable  to  remain  in  a  house  where 
Sales  and  such-like  are  carrying  forwards.  The  housemaid  is 
sure  of  it ;  and  relates,  in  confirmation,  that  a  strange  man,  in  a 
carpet  cap,  offered  this  very  morning  to  kiss  her  on  the  stairs, 
Hereupon,  Mr.  Towlinson  is  starting  from  Ms  chair,  to  seek  and 
"smash"  the  odender ;  when  he  is  laid  hokl  on  by  the  ladies, 
who  beseech  him  to  calm  himself,  and  to  reflect  that  it  is  easiei 


.y^a  bOMBEY  AND  SOM. 

and  wiser  to  leave  the  scene  of  such  indecencies  at  once.  Mrs 
Percli,  presenting  the  case  in  a  new  hglit,  even  shows  that  deli- 
cacy towards  Mr.  Doinbey,  shut  up  in  his  own  rooms,  impera- 
tively demands  precipitate  retreat.  "  For  what,"  says  the  good 
woman,  "  must  his  feeliiTgs  be,  if  he  was  to  come  upon  any  of 
the  poor  servants  that  he  once  deceived  into  thinking  him  im- 
mensely rich  !  "  Cook  is  so  struck  by  this  moral  consideration 
that  Mrs.  Perch  improves  it  with  several  pious  axioms,  original 
and  selected.  It  becomes  a  clear  case  that  they  must  all  go. 
Boxes  are  packed,  cabs  fetched,  and  at  dusk  that  evening  there 
is  not  one  member  of  the  party  left. 

The  house  stands,  large  and  weather-proof,  in  the  long  dull 
street ;  but  it  is  a  ruin,  and  the  rats  fly  from  it. 

The  men  in  the  carpet  caps  go  on  tumbling  the  furniture 
about ;  and  the  gentlemen  with  the  pens  and  ink  make  out  in- 
ventories of  it,  and  sit  upon  pieces  of  furniture  never  made  to 
be  sat  upon,  and  eat  bread  and  cheese  from  the  public-house  on 
other  pieces  of  furniture  never  made  to  be  eaten  on,  and  seem  to 
have  a  delight  in  appropriating  precious  articles  to  strange  uses. 
Chaotic  combinations  of  furniture  also  take  place.  Mattresses 
and  bedding  appear  in  the  dining-room  ;  the  glass  and  china  get 
into  the  conservatory  ;  the  great  dinner  service  is  set  out  in 
heaps  on  the  long  divan  in  the  large  drawing-room  ;  and  the 
stair-wires,  made  into  fasces,  decorate  the  marble  chimney-pieces. 
Finally,  a  rug,  with  a  printed  bill  upon  it,  is  hung  out  from  the 
balcony ;  and  a  similar  appendage  graces  either  side  of  the  hall 
door. 

Then,  all  day  long,  there  is  a  retinue  of  mouldy  gigs  and 
chaise-carts  in  the  street ;  and  herds  of  shabby  vampires,  Jew 
and  Christian,  over-run  the  house,  sounding  the  plate-glass  mir- 
rors with  their  knuckles,  striking  discordant  octaves  on  the 
Grand  Piano,  drawing  wet  forefingers  over  the  pictures,  breath- 
ing on  the  blades  of  the  best  dinner-knives,  punching  the  squabs 
of  chairs  and  sofas  with  their  dirty  fists,  touzling^the  feather 
beds,  opening  and  shutting  all  the  drawers,  balancing  the  silver 
spoons  and  forks,  looking  into  the  very  threads  of  the  drapery 
and  linen,  and  disparaging  e\crything.  There  is  not  a  secret 
place  in  the  whole  house.  Fluffy  ancrsnufTy  strangers  stare  into 
the  kitchen  range  as  curiously  as  into  the  attic  clothes-press. 
Stout  men  with  napless  hats  on,  look  out  of  the  bedroom  win- 
dows, and  cut  jokes  with  friends  in  the  street.  Quiet,  calcula- 
ting spirits  withdraw  into  the  dressing-rooms  with  catalogues,  and 
make  marginal  notes  thereon,  with  stumps  of  pencils.  Two 
brokers  invads  the  very  fire-escape,  and  take  a  panoramic  sur 


RETRIBUTION. 


7V' 


veyoi  llic  ncigliborhooci  from  tlic  top  of  the  house.  The  swarm 
and  bu/z,  an(li;oiiig  up  and  clown,  endure  for  days,  'i'he  Capi- 
tal Modern  Household  I'urniture,  vSic.,  is  on  view. 

Then  there  is  a  palisade  of  tables  made  in  the  best  drawing- 
room  ;  and  on  the  capital,  french-polished,  extending,  telescopic 
range  of  Spanish  mahogany  dining-tabics  with  turned  legs, 
the  pulpit  of  the  Auctioneer  is  erected  ;  and  the  herds  of 
shabby  vampires,  Jew  and  Christian,  the  strangers  fluffy  and 
snulTy,  and  the  stout  men  with  the  napless  liats,  congregate 
about  it  and  sit  upon  everything  within  reach,  mantelpieces  in- 
cluded, and  begin  to  bid.  Hot,  humming,  and  dusty  are  th.e 
rooms  all  day  ;  and — high  above  the  heat,  hum,  and  dust — the 
head  and  shoulders,  voice  and  hammer,  of  the  Auctioneer,  are 
ever  at  work.  The  men  in  the  carpet-caps  get  flustered  and 
vicious  with  tumbling  the  Lots  about,  and  still  the  Lots  are 
going,  going,  gone  ;  still  coming  ofT.  Sonielimcs  there  is  jok- 
ing and  a  general  roar.  This  lasts  all  day  and  three  days, 
following.  Tlie  Capital  Modern  Household  Furniture,  &c.,  is 
on  sale. 

Then  the  mouldy  gigs  and  chaise  carts  reappear  ;  and  with 
them  come  spring-vans  and  wagons,  and  an  army  of  porters 
with  knots.  All  day  long,  the  men  with  carpet-caps  arc  screw- 
ing at  screw-drivers  and  bed-winches,  or  staggering  by  the 
dozen  together  on  the  staircase  under  heavy  burdens,  or  up- 
heaving perfect  rocks  of  Spanish  mahogany,  best  rosewood,  or 
plate-glass,  into  the  gigs  and  chaise-carts,  vans  and  wagons. 
All  sorts  of  vehicles  of  burden  are  in  attendance,  from  a  tilted 
wagon  to  a  wheel-barrow.  Poor  Paul's  little  bedstead  is  carried 
off  in  a  donkey- tandem.  For  nearly  a  whole  week,  the  Capital 
Modern  Household  Furniture,  &c.,  is  in  course  of  removal. 

At  last  it  is  all  gone.  Nothing  is  left  about  the  liouse  but 
scattered  leaves  of  catalogues,  littered  scraps  of  straw  and  hay, 
and  a  battery  of  pewter  pots  behind  the  hall-door.  'I'he  men 
with  the  carpet-caps  gather  up  their  screw-drivers  and  bed- 
winches  into  bags,  shoulder  them,  and  walk  off.  One  of  the 
pen  and  ink  gentlemen  goes  over  the  house  as  a  last  attention  ; 
sticking  up  bills  in  the  windows  respecting  the  lease  of  this 
desirable  family  mansion,  and  shutting  the  shutters.  At  length 
he  follows  the  men  with  the  carpet-caps.  None  of  the  invaders 
remain.     The  house  is  a  ruin,  and  the  rats  fly  from  it. 

Mrs.  ripchin's  apartments,  together  with  those  locked 
rooms  on  the  ground-floor  where  the  window-blinds  are  drawn 
down  close,  have  been  spared  tiic  general  devastation.  Mrs. 
Pipchin  has  remained  austere  and  stony  during  the  proceedings 


792 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


in  her  own  room  ;  or  has  occasionally  looked  in  at  the  sale  to 
see  what  the  goods  are  fetching,  and  to  bid  for  one  particular 
easy  chair.  Mrs.  Pipchin  has  been  the  highest  bidder  for  the 
easy  chair,  and  sits  upon  her  property  when  Mrs.  Chick  comes 
to  see  her. 

"  How  is  my  brother,  Mrs.  Pipchin  ?  "  says  Mrs.  Chick. 

"I  don't  know  any  more  than  the  deuce,"  says  Mrs.  Pip- 
chin.  "  He  never  does  me  the  honor  to  speak  to  me.  He  has 
his  meat  and  drink  put  in  the  next  room  to  his  own  ;  and  what 
he  takes,  he  comes  out  and  takes  when  there's  nobody  there. 
It's  no  use  asking  me.  I  know  no  more  about  him  than  the 
man  in  the  south  who  burnt  his  mouth  by  eating  cold  plum  por- 
ridge." 

This  the  acrimonious  Pipchin  says  with  a  flounce. 

"  But  good  gracious  me  !  "  crJe^  Mrs.  Chick  blandly,  "  How 
long  is  this  to  last!  If  my  brothel  will^ot  make  an  effort, 
Mrs.  Pipchin,  what  is  to  become  of  hini,?  I  am  sure  I  should 
have  thought  he  had  seen  enough  of  the  (consequences  of  not 
making  an  effort,  by  this  time,  to  be  warned  against  that  fatal 
error." 

"  Hoity  toity  !  "  says  Mrs.  Pipchin,  rubbing  her  nose. 
"There's  a  great  fuss  I  think,  about  it.  It  an't  so  wonderful 
a  case.  People  have  had  misfortunes  before  now,  and  been 
obliged  to  part  with  their  furniture.     I'm  sure  /have  !  " 

"My  brother,"  pursues  Mrs.  Chick  profoundly,  "is  so  pecu- 
liar— so  strange  a  man.  He  is  the  most  peculiar  man  /  ever 
saw.  Would  any  one  believe  that  when  he  received  news  of 
the  marriage  and  emigration  of  that  unnatural  child — it's  a 
comfort  to  me,  now,  to  remember  that  I  always  said  there  was 
something  extraorclinary  about  that  child  :  but  noboily  minds 
me — would  anybody  believe,  I  say,  that  he  should  then  turn 
round  upon  me  and  say  he  had  supposed,  from  my  manner, 
that  she  had  come  to  my  house  ?  Why,  my  gracious  !  And 
would  anybody  believe  that  when  I  merely  say  to  him,  'Paul, 
1  may  be  very  foolish,  and  I  have  no  doubt  I  am,  but  1  cannot 
imdcrstand  how  your  affairs  can  ha\e  got  into  this  state,'  he 
should  actually  (ly  at  me,  and  request  that  I  will  come  to  see 
him  no  more  until  he  asks  me  !     Why,  my  goodness !  " 

"Ah  1  "  says  Mrs.  Pipchin.  "  It's  a  pity  he  hadn't  a  little 
more  to  do  with  mines.  They'd  have  tried  his  temper  for 
him." 

"  And  what,"  resumes  Mrs.  Chick,  quite  regardless  of  Mrs. 
Pipchin's  observations,  "is  it  to  end  in?  That's  what  f  wani 
to  know,     What  does   my  brother  mean   to  do?     He  must  c)o 


-^^ 


»•  kETRlBUTlON.  793 

soinethiiii;.  It's  of  no  use  rcinaiiiiiiL;  shut  up  in  his  own  moms. 
Business  won't  come  to  him.  No.  lie  must  go  to  it.  'I'hen 
why  don't  he  go  !  He  knows  where  to  go,  I  suppose,  Iiaving 
been  a  man  of  business  all  his  life.  Very  good.  Then  why 
not  go  there  t  " 

Mrs.  Chick,  after  forging  this  powerful  chain  of  reasoning, 
remains  silent  for  a  minute  to  admire  it. 

"  Besides,"  says  the  discreet  lady,  with  an  argumentative 
air,  "who  ever  heard  of  such  obstiuc-vcy  as  his  staying  shut  up 
here  through  all  these  dreadful  disagrecixbles  ?  It's  not  as  if 
there  was  no  place  for  him  to  go  to.  Of  course  he  could  have 
come  to  our  house.  He  knows  he  is  at  home  there,  I  suppose.^ 
Mr.  Chick  has  perfectly  bored  about  it,  and  I  said  with  my  own 
lips,  'Why  surely,  Paul, -you  don't  imagine  that  because  your 
affairs  have  got  into  this  state,  you  are  the  less  at  home  to 
such  near  relatives  04*  ourselves  ?  You  don't  imagine  that  we 
are  like  the  rest  of  the  world?  I'ut  no;  here  he  stays  all 
through,  and  here  he  is.  Why,  good  gracious  uie,  suppose  the 
house  was  to  be  let !  What  would  he  do  then  ?  He  couldn't 
'■emain  here,  then.  If  he  attempted  to  do  so,  there  would  be 
arv  ejectment,  an  action  for  Doe,  and  all  sorts  of  things  ;  and 
then  he  must  go.  Then  why  nut  go  at  first  instead  of  at  last  ? 
And  that  brings  me  back  to  what  I  said  just  now,  and  I  natu- 
rally ask  what  is  to  be  the  end  of  it  ?  " 

"  I  know  what's  to  be  the  end  of  it,  as  far  as  /am  con- 
cerned," replies  Mrs.  Pipchin,  "and  that's  enough  for  me.  I'm 
going  to  take  wj'self  off  in  a  jiffy." 

"In  a  which,  Mrs.  Pipchin,"  says  Mrs.  Chick. 

"  In  a  jiffy,"  retorts  Mrs.  Pipchin  sharply. 

"  Ah,  well  !  really  I  can't  blame  you,  Mrs.  Pipchin,"  says 
Mrs.  Chick,  with  frankness. 

"  It  would  be  pretty  much  the  same  to  me,  if  you  could," 
replies  the  sardonic  Pipchin.  "  At  any  rale  I'm  going.  I  can't 
stop  here.  I  should  be  dead  in  a  week.  I  had  to  cook  my 
own  pork  chop  yesterday,  and  I'm  not  used  to  it.  My  consti- 
tution will  be  giving  way  next.  Besides,  I  had  a  very  fair  con- 
nection at  Brighton  when  I  came  here — little  Pankcy's  folks 
alone  were  worth  a  good  eighty  pounds  a-year  to  me — -and  I 
can't  afford  to  throw  it  away.  I've  written  to  my  niece,  and 
she  e.xpects  me  by  this  time." 

"  Have  you  spoken  to  my  brother?  "  inquires  Mrs.  Chick. 

"  Oh,  yes,  it's  very  easy  to  say  speak  to  Jnm,"  retorts  Mrs. 
Pipchin.  "  How  is  it  done  !  I  called  out  to  him  ve^tirday, 
that  I  was  no  use  here,  and  that  he  had  better  l<-c  me  send  fo/ 


794 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


Mrs.  Richardu.  He  grunted  something  or  otlier  that  meant 
yes,  and  I  sent !  Grunt  indeed  !  If  he  had  been  Mr,  Pipchin, 
he'd  have  had  some  reason  to  grunt.  Yah  !  I've  no  patience 
with  it !  " 

Here  this  exemplary  female,  who  has  pumped  up  so  much 
fortitude  and  virtue  from  the  depths  of  the  Peruvian  mines, 
rises  from  her  cushioned  property  to  see  Mrs.  Chick  to  the 
door.  Mrs.  Chick,  deploring  to  the  last  the  peculiar  character 
of  her  brother,  noiselessly  retires,  much  occupied  with  her  own 
sagacity  and  clearness  of  head. 

In  the  dusk  of  the  evening  Mr.  Toodle,  being  off  duty,  ar- 
rives with  Polly  and  a  box,  and  leaves  them,  with  a  sounding 
kiss,  in  the  hall  of  the  empty  house,  the  retired  character  of 
which  affects  Mr.  Toodle's  spirits  strongly. 

"  I  tell  you  what,  Polly,  my  dear,"  says  Mr.  Toodle,  "  being 
now  an  ingein-driver,  and  well  to  do  in  the  world,  I  shouldn't 
allow  of  your  coming  here,  to  be  made  dull-like,  if  it  warn't  for 
favors  past.  But  favors  past,  Polly,  is  never  to  be  forgot.  To 
them  which  is  in  adversity,  besides,  your  face  is  a  cord'l.  So 
let's  have  another  kiss  on  it,  my  dear.  You  wish  no  better  than 
to  do  a  right  act,  I  know  ;  and  my  views  is,  that  it's  right  and 
dutiful  to  do  this.     Good-night,  Polly  !  " 

Mrs.  Pipchin  by  this  time  looms  dark  in  her  black  bomba- 
zine skirts,  black  bonnet,  and  shawl  ;  and  has  her  personal 
property  packed  up  ;  and  has  her  chair  (late  a  favorite  chair  of 
Mr.  Dombey's  and  the  dead  bargain  of  the  sale)  ready  near  the 
street  door  ;  and  is  only  waiting  for  a  fly  van,  going  to-night  to 
Brighton  on  private  service,  which  is  to  call  for  her,  by  private 
contract,  and  convey  her  home. 

Presently  it  comes.  Mrs.  Pipchin's  wardrobe  being  handed 
in  and  stowed  away,  Mrs.  Pipchin's  chair  is  next  handed  in, 
and  placed  in  a  convenient  corner  among  certain  trusses  of  hay  ; 
it  being  the  intention  of  the  amiable  woman  to  occupy  the  chair 
during  her  journey.  Mrs.  Pipchin  herself  is  next  handed  in, 
and  g-rimly  takes  her  .seat.  There  is  a  snaky  gleam  in  her  hard 
gray  f^ye,  as  of  anticipated  rounds  of  buttered  toast,  relays  of 
hot  chops,  worr}'ings  and  (luellings  of  young  children,  sharp 
snappings  at  poor  Berry,  and  all  the  other  delights  of  her 
Ogress's  castle.  Mrs.  Pipchin  almost  laughs  as  the  Fly  Van 
drives  off,  and  she  composes  her  black  bombazine  skirts,  and 
settles  herself  among  the  cushion:;  tif  her  easy  chair. 

The  house  is  such  a  iiiin  that  the  rats  have  fled,  and  liiere 
is  not  una  left. 

But  Polly,  Uioujrh  alone  in  the  deserted  mansion — for  there 


RE  TRIB  iTT/OA/:  y  ^  i; 

is  no  companionship  in  the  shut-up  rooms  in  which  iis  late 
master  hides  his  head — is  not  alone  long.  It  is  night  ;  and  she 
is  sitting  at  work  in  the  house-keeper's  room,  trying  to  forget 
what  a  lonely  house  it  is,  and  what  a  history  belongs  to  it  ;  w  hen 
there  is  a  knock  at  the  hall  door,  as  loud  sounding  as  any 
knock  can  be,  striking  into  such  an  empty  place.  Opening  it, 
she  returns  across  the  echoing  hall,  accompanied  by  a  female 
figure,  in  a  close  black  bonnet.  It  is  Miss  Tox,  andMiss  Tox's 
eyes  are  red. 

"Oh,  Polly,"  says  Miss  Tox,  "when  I  looked  in  to  have  a 
lesson  with  the  children  just  now,  I  got  the  message  that  you 
left  for  me  ;  and  as  soon  as  I  could  recover  my  spirits  at  all,  I 
came  on  after  you.     Is  there  no  one  here  but  you  ?  " 

"Ah!  not  a  soul,"  says  Polly. 

"  Have  you  seen  him  .''  "  whispers  Miss  Tox. 

"  Bless  you,"  returns  Polly,  "  no  ;  he  has  not  been  seen  this 
many  a  day.     They  tell  me  he  never  leaves  his  room." 

"  Is  he  said  to  be  ill  ? "  inquires  Miss  Tox. 

"  No,  ma'am,  not  that  I  know  of,"  returns  Polly,  "  except 
in  his  mind.     He  must  be  very  bad  there,  poor  gentleman  !  " 

Miss  Tox's  sympathy  is  such  tliat  she  can  scarcely  speak. 
She  is  no  chicken,  but  she  has  not  grown  tough  with  age  and 
celibacy.  Her  heart  is  verj'  tender,  her  compassion  very  genu- 
ine, her  homage  very  real.  Beneath  the  locket  with  the  fishy- 
eye  in  it,  Miss  Tox  bears  better  qualities  than  many  a  less 
whimsical  outside  ;  such  qualities  as  will  outlive,  by  many 
courses  of  the  sun,  the  best  ouLsides  and  brightest  husks  that 
fall  in  the  harvest  of  the  great  reaper. 

It  is  long  before  Miss  Tox  goes  away,  and  before  Polly, 
with  a  candle  flaring  on  the  blank  stairs,  looks  after  her,  for 
company,  down  the  street,  and  feels  unwilling  to  go  back  into 
the  dreary  house,  and  jar  ils  emptiness  with  the  heavy  fasten- 
ings of  the  door,  and  glide  away  to  bed.  But  all  this  Polly 
does  ;  and  in  the  morning  sets  in  one  of  those  darkened  rooms 
such  matters  as  she  has  been  advised  to  prepare,  and  then  re- 
tires and  enters  them  no  more  until  next  morning  at  tlie  same 
hour.  There  arc  bells  there,  but  they  never  ring  ;  and  though 
she  can  sometimes  hear  a  footfall  going  to  and  fro,  it  never 
comes  out. 

Miss  Tox  returns  early  in  the  day.  It  then  begins  to  be 
Miss  Tox's  occupation  to  prepare  little  dainties — or  what  are 
such  to  her — to  be  carried  into  these  rooms  next  morning.  She 
derives  so  much  satisfaction  from  the  pursuit,  that  she  enters  on 
it    regularly   from   that    lime  :  and   brings    daily  in   her   little 


7()6  DOMBEV  AXD  SuX. 

basket,  various  choice  condiments  selected  frc^m  the  scrinty 
stores  of  the  deceased  owner  of  the  powdered  head  and  pigtail, 
She  likewise  brings  in  sheets  of  curl  paper,  morsels  of  cold 
meats,  tongues  of  sheeps,  halves  of  fowls,  for  her  own  dinner, 
and  sharing  these  collations  with  Polly,  passes  the  greater  part 
of  her  time  in  the  ruined  house  that  the  rats  have  fled  from  ; 
hiding,  in  fright  at  every  sound,  stealing  in  and  out  like  a 
criminal ;  only  desiring  to  be  true  to  the  fallen  object  of  her 
admiration,  unknown  to  him,  unknown  to  all  the  world  but  one 
poor  simple  woman. 

The  Major  knows  it  ;  but  no  one  is  the  wiser  for  that, 
though  the  Major  is  much  the  merrier.  The  Major,  in  a  fit  of 
curiosity,  has  charged  the  Native  to  watch  the  house  sometimes 
and  find  out  what  becomes  of  Dombey.  The  Native  has  re- 
ported Miss  Tox's  fidelity,  and  the  Major  has  nearly  choked 
himself  dead  with  laughter.  He  is  permanently  bluer  from  that 
hour,  and  constantly  wheezes  to  himself,  his  lobster  eyes  start- 
ing out  of  his  head,   "  Damme,  Sir,  the  woman's  a  born  idiot !" 

And  the  ruined  man.      How  does  he  pass  the  hours,  alone  ? 

"  Let  him  remember  it  in  that  room,  years  to  come  !  "  He 
did  remember  it.  It  was  heavy  on  his  mind  now  ;  heavier  than 
all  the  rest. 

"  Let  him  remember  it  in  that  room,  years  to  come.  The 
rain  that  falls  upon  the  roof,  the  wind  that  mourns  outside  the 
door,  may  have  foreknowledge  in  their  melancholy  sound.  Let 
him  remember  it  in  that  room,  years  to  come  I  " 

He  did  remember  it.  In  the  miserable  night  he  thought  of 
it ;  in  the  dreary  day,  the  wretched  dawn,  the  ghostly,  memory- 
haunted  twilig-ht.  He  did  remember  it.  In  agony,  in  sorrow, 
in  remorse,  in  despair  !  Papa  !  papa  !  Speak  to  me,  dear 
papa!"  He  heard  the  words  again,  and  saw  the  face.  He 
saw  it  fall  upon  the  trembling  hands,  and  heard  the  one  pro 
longed  cry  go  upward. 

He  was  fallen,  never  to  be  raised  up  any  more.  For  vhe 
night  of  his  worldly  ruin  there  was  no  to-morrow's  sun  :  for  the 
stain  of  his  domestic  shame  there  was  no  purification  ;  nothing, 
thank  Heaven,  could  bring  his  dead  child  back  to  life.  But 
that  which  he  might  have  made  so  different  in  all  the  Past  — 
which  might  have  made  the  Past  itself  so  different,  though  this 
he  hardly  thought  of  now — that  which  was  his  own  work,  that 
which  he  could  so  easily  have  wrought  into  a  blessing,  and  had 
set  himself  so  steadily  for  years  to  form  into  a  curse:  that  was 
the  sharp  grief  of  his  soul. 

Oh!     lie  did  remember  it!     The  rain  that  fell  upon  the 


KLTRinUT/OX 


101 


roof,  the  wiiid  that  mourned  outside  the  door  that  ni^ht,  liar! 
had  foreknowledge  in  llieir  melancholy  sound.  He  knew,  now, 
what  he  had  done.  He  knew,  now,  that  he  had  calletl  d«;wn 
that  upon  his  head,  which  bowed  it  lower  than  the  heaviest 
stroke  of  fortune.  lie  knew,  now,  what  it  was  to  be  rejected 
and  deserted  ;  now,  when  every  loving  blossom  he  Iiad  with- 
ered in  his  innocent  daughter's  heart  was  snowing  down  in  ashes 
on  liim. 

He  thought  of  her,  as  slie  had  been  tliat  night  when  he 
and  his  bride  came  home.  He  thought  of  her  as  she  had  been, 
in  all  the  home  events  of  tiie  abandoned  House.  He  thought, 
now,  that  of  all  around  him,  she  alone  had  never  changed. 
His  boy  had  faded  into  dust,  his  proud  wife  had  sunk  into  a 
polluted  creature,  his  flatterer  and  friend  had  been  transformed 
into  the  worst  of  villains,  his  riches  had  melted  away,  the  very 
walls  that  sheltered  him  looked  on  him  as  a  stranger;  she 
alone  had  turned  the  same  mild  gentle  look  upon  him  always. 
Yes,  to  the  latest  and  the  last.  She  had  never  changed  to 
him — nor  had  he  ever  changed  to  her — and  she  was  lost. 

As,  one  by  one,  they  teli  away  before  iiis  mind — his  baby- 
hope,  his  wife,  his  friend,  his  fortune — oh  how  the  mist,  through 
which  he  hatl  seen  her,  cleared,  and  showed  him  her  true  self  ! 
Oh,  how  much  better  than  this  that  he  had  loved  her  as  he  had 
his  boy,  and  lost  her  as  he  had  his  boy,  and  laid  them  in  their 
early  grave  together ! 

In  his  pride — for  he  was  proud  yet — he  let  the  world  go 
from  him  freely  As  it  fell  away,  he  shook  it  off.  Whether  he 
imagined  its  face  as  expressing  pity  for  him,  or  indifference  to 
him,  he  shunned  it  alike.  It  \\as  in  the  same  degree  to  be 
avoided,  in  either  aspect.  He  had  no  idea  of  any  one  com- 
panion in  his  misery,  but  the  one  he  had  driven  away.  What 
he  would  have  said  to  her,  or  what  consolation  submitted  to 
receive  from  her,  he  never  pictured  to  himself.  lUit  he  always 
knew  she  would  have  been  true  to  him,  if  he  had  suffered  her. 
He  always  knew  she  would  ha\e  loved  him  belter  now,  than  at 
any  other  tune  •,  he  was  as  certain  that  it  was  in  her  nature,  as 
he  was  that  there  xsas  a  sky  above  him  ;  and  he  sat  thinking  so 
m  his  loneliness,  from  hour  to  hour.  Day  after  day  uttered 
this  speech  ■,  night  after  night  showed  him  this  knowledge 

It  began,  beVond  all  doubt  (however  slowly  it  advanced  lor 
some  time)  in  the  receipt  of  her  young  husband's  letter,  and 
the  certainty  that  she  was  gone.  .And  yet — so  proud  he  was 
in  his  ruin,  or  so  reminiscent  of  her,  only  as  something  that 
might  have  been  his,  but  was  lost  beyond  redemption— that  It 


798  DOMBEY  AA'D  SO.V. 

he  could  have  heard  her  voice  in  an  adjoining  room,  he  would 
not  have  gone  to  her.  If  he  could  have  seen  her  in  tlie  street, 
and  she  had  done  no  more  than  look  at  him  as  she  had  been 
used  to  look,  he  would  have  passed  on  with  his  old  cold  unforgiv- 
ing face,  and  not  addressed  her,  or  relaxed  it,  though  his  heart 
should  have  broken  soon  afterwards.  However  tiubulcnt  his 
thoughts,  or  harsh  his  anger  had  been,  at  first,  concerning  her 
marriage,  or  her  husband,  that  was  all  past  now.  He  chiefly 
thought  of  what  might  have  been,  and  what  was  not.  \\'hot 
was,  was  all  summed  up  in  this  :  that  she  was  lost,  and  he 
bowed  down  with  sorrow  and  remorse. 

And  now  he  felt  that  he  had  had  two  children  born  to  him 
in  that  house,  and  that  between  him  and  the  bare  wide  empty 
walls  there  was  a  tie,  mournful,  but  hard  to  rend  asunder,  con- 
nected with  a  double  childhood,  and  a  double  loss.  He  had 
sought  to  leave  the  house — knowing  he  must  go,  not  knowing 
whither — upon  the  evening  of  the  day  on  w^hich  this  feeling 
first  struck  root  in  his  breast ;  but  he  resolved  to  stay  another 
night,  and  in  the  night  to  ramble  through  the  rooms  once 
more. 

He  came  out  of  his  solitude  when  it  was  the  dead  of  night, 
and  with  a  candle  in  his  liand  went  softly  up  the  stairs.  Of 
all  the  footmarks  there,  making  them  as  common  as  the  com- 
mon street,  there  was  not  one,  he  thought,  but  had  seemed  at 
the  time  to  set  itself  upon  his  brain  while  he  had  kept  close, 
listening.  He  looked  at  their  number,  and  their  hurry,  and 
contention — foot  treading  foot  out,  and  upward  track  and 
downward  jostling  one  another — and  thought  with  absolute 
dread  and  wonder,  how  much  he  must  have  suffered  during 
that  trial,  and  what  a  changed  man  he  had  cause  to  be.  He 
thought,  besides,  oh  was  there,  somewhere  in  the  world,  a  light 
footstep  that  might  have  worn  out  in  a  moment  half  those 
marks  ! — and  bent  his  head,  and  wept  as  he  went  up. 

He  almost  saw  it,  going  on  before.  He  stopped,  looking  up 
towards  the  skylight;  and  a  figure,  childish  itself,  but  carrying 
a  child,  and  singing  as  it  went,  seemed  to  be  there  again. 
Anon,  it  was  the  same  figure  alone,  stopping  for  an  instant, 
with  suspended  breath ;  the  bright  hair  clustering  loosely 
round  its  tearful  face ;  and  looking  back  at  him. 

He  wandered  through  the  rooms  lately  so  luxurious ;  now 
so  bare  and  dismal  ancl  so  changed,  apparently,  even  in  their 
shape  and  size.  The  press  of  footsteps  was  as  thick  here ; 
and  the  same  consideration  of  the  sulTering  he  had  had.  per- 
plexed find  terrified  him,     He  began  to  fear  that  all  this  in- 


RETKUii'TlOX. 


799 


tricacy  in  his  brain  would  drive  liiiii  mad  ;  and  that  his  thoughts 
already  lost  coherence  as  the  footprints  did,  and  were  pieced  on 
to  one  another,  with  the  same  trac'.vlcss  involutions  and  varie- 
ties of  indistinct  shajics. 

He  did  not  so  much  as  know  in  which  of  these  rooms  she 
had  lived,  when  she  was  alone.  He  was  glad  to  -leave  them 
and  go  wandering  higher  up.  Abundance  of  associations  were 
here  connected  with  his  false  wife,  his  false  friend  and  serv- 
ant, his  false  grounds  of  pride  ;  but  he  put  them  all  by  now 
and  only  recalled  miserably,  weakly,   fondly,   his  two  children. 

Everywhere,  the  footsteps  !  They  had  had  no  respect  for 
the  old  room  high  up,  where  the  little  bed  had  been  ;  he  could 
hardly  find  a  clear  space  there,  to  throw  himself  down,  on  the 
floor,  against  the  wall,  poor  broken  man,  and  let  his  tears  flow 
as  they  would.  He  had  shed  so  many  tears  here,  long  ago, 
that  he  was  less  ashamed  of  his  weakness  in  this  place  than  en 
any  other — perhaps,  with  that  consciousness  had  made  excuses 
to  himself  for  coming  here.  Here,  with  stooping  shoulders, 
and  his  chin  dropped  on  his  breast,  he  had  come.  Here, 
thrown  upon  the  bare  boards,  in  the  dead  of  night,  he  wept 
alone — a  proud  man,  even  then ;  who,  if  a  kind  hand  could 
have  been  stretched  out,  or  a  kind  face  could  have  looked  in, 
would  have  risen  up,  and  turned  awav,  and  gone  down  to  his 
cell. 

When  the  day  broke  he  was  shut  up  in  his  rooms  again,! 
He  had  meant  to  go  away  to-day,  but  clung  to  this  tie  in  the 
house  as  the  last  and  only  thing  left  to  him.  He  would  go  to- 
morrow. To-morrow  came.  He  would  go  to-morrow.  Every 
night  within  the  knowledge  of  no  human  creature,  he  came 
forth,  and  wandered  through  the  despoiled  house  like  a  ghost. 
Many  a  morning  when  the  day  broke,  his  altered  face,  droop- 
in'i- behind  the  closed  blind  in  his  window,  imperfectly  trans- 
parent to  the  light  as  yet,  pondered  on  the  loss  of  his  two 
children.  It  was  one  child  no  more.  He  re-united  them  in 
his  thoughts,  and  they  were  never  asunder.  Oh,  that  he  could 
have  united  them  in  his  past  love,  and  in  death,  and  that  one 
had  not  been  so  much  worse  than  dead  ! 

Strong  mental  agitation  and  disturbance  was  no  novelty  to 
him  even  before  his  late  sufferings.  It  never  is,  to  obstinate 
and  sullen  natures  ;  for  they  struggle  hard  to  be  such.  Ground, 
long  undermined,  will  often  fall  down  in  a  moment  ;  what  was 
undermined  here  in  so  many  ways,  weakened,  and  crumbled 
little  by  little,  more  and  more,  as  the  hand  moved  on  the  dial. 

At  last  he  began  to  think  he  need  not  go  at  all,     He  might 


8oo  DOME EY  AND  SON. 

yet  give  up  what  his  creditors  had  spared  him  (that  they  had 
not  spared  him  more,  was  his  own  act),  and  only  severed  the  tie 
between  him  and  the  ruined  house,  by  severing  that  other 
link 

It  was  then  that  his  footfall  was  audible  in  the  late  house- 
keeper's room,  as  he  walked  to  and  fro  ;  but  not  audible  in  its 
true  meaning,  or  it  would  have  had  an  appalling  sound. 

The  world  was  very  busy  and  restless  about  him.  He  be- 
came aware  of  that  again.  It  was  whispering  and  babbling. 
It  was  never  quiet.  This,  and  the  intricacy  and  complication 
of  the  footsteps,  harassed  him  to  death.  Objects  began  to  take 
a  bleared  and  russet  color  in  his  eyes.  Dombey  and  Son  was 
no  more — his  children  no  more.  This  must  be  thought  of, 
well,  to-morrow. 

He  thought  of  it  to-morrow  ;  and  sitting  thinking  in  his 
chair,  saw  in  the  glass,  from  time  to  time,  this  picture  : 

A  spectral,  haggard,  wasted  likeness  of  himself,  brooded 
and  brooded  over  the  empty  fireplace.  Now  it  lifted  up  its 
head,  examining  the  lines  and  hollows  in  its  face ;  now  hung  it 
down  again,  and  brooded  afresh.  Now  it  rose  and  walked 
about ;  now  passed  into  the  next  room,  and  came  back  with 
something  from  the  dressing-table  in  its  breast.  Now,  it  was 
looking  at  the  bottom  of  the  door,  and  thinking. 

— Hush  !  what  ? 

It  was  thinking  that  if  blood  were  to  trickle  that  way,  and 
to  leak  out  into  the  hall,  it  must  be  a  long  time  going  so  far. 
It  would  move  so  stealthily  and  slowly,  creeping  on,  with  here 
a  lazy  little  pool,  and  there  a  start,  and  then  another  little  pool, 
that  a  desperately  wounded  man  could  only  be  discovered 
through  its  means,  cither  dead  or  dying.  When  it  had  thought 
of  this  a  long  while,  it  got  up  again,  and  walked  to  and  fro  with 
its  hand  in  its  breast.  He  gbnced  at  it  occasionally,  very 
curious  to  watch  its  motions,  and  he  marked  how  wicked  and 
murderous  that  hand  looked. 

Now  it  was  thinking  again  !     What  was  it  thinking  ? 

Whether  tliey  would  tread  in  the  blood  when  it  crept  so  far, 
and  carry  it  about  the  house  among  those  many  prints  of  feet, 
or  even  out  into  the  street. 

It  sat  down,  with  its  eyes  upon  the  empty  fireplace,  and  as 
it  lost  itself  in  thought  there  shone  into  the  room  a  gleam  of 
light ;  a  ray  of  sun.  It  was  quite  unmindful,  and  sat  thinking. 
Suddenly  it  rose,  with  a  terrible  face,  and  that  guilty  hand 
grasping  what  was  in  its  breast.  Then  it  was  arrested  by  a 
cry— a  wild,  loud,  piercing,  loving,  rapturous  cry— and  he  only 


KKI'KIKCTIOX.  801 

sav  his  own  rellcclion  in  the  glass,  and  at  his  knees,  liis  dauiih- 
tcr  ! 

Yes.  His  daughter !  Look  at  her!  Look  here!  Down 
upon  the  ground,  cUnging  to  him,  calling  to  him,  folding  her 
hands,  praying  to  him. 

"  Papa  !  Dearest  papa  I  Pardon  me,  forgive  me  I  J  have 
come  back  to  ask  forgiveness  on  my  knees.  I  never  can  be 
happy  more,  without  it !  " 

Unchanged  still.  Of  all  the  world,  unchanged.  Raising 
the  same  face  to  his,  as  on  that  miserable  night.  Asking  his 
forgiveness  ! 

"  Dear  papa,  oh,  don't  look  strangely  on  me  !  I  never  meant 
to  leave  you.  I  never  thought  of  it,  before  or  afterwards.  I 
was  frightened  when  I  went  away,  and  could  not  think.  Papa, 
dear,  I  am  changed.  I  am  penitent.  I  know  my  fault.  I 
know  my  duty  better  now.  Papa,  don't  cast  me  off,  or  I  shall 
die  !  " 

He  tottered  to  his  chair.  He  felt  her  draw  his  arms  about 
her  neck  ;  he  felt  her  put  her  own  round  his  ;  he  felt  her  kisses 
on  his  face ;  he  felt  her  wet  cheek  laid  against  his  own  ;  he  felt 
— oh,  how  deeply  ! — all  that  he  had  done. 

Upon  the  breast  that  he  had  bruised,  against  the  heart  that 
he  had  almost  broken,  she  laid  his  face,  now  covered  with  his 
hands,  and  said,  sobbing  : 

"  Papa,  love,  I  am  a  mother.  I  have  a  child  who  will  soon 
call  Walter  by  the  name  by  which  I  call  you.  When  it  was 
born,  and  when  I  knew  how  much  I  loved  it,  I  knew  what  I 
had  done  in  leaving  you.  Forgive  me,  dear  Papa  !  oh,  say  God 
bless  me,  and  my  little  child  !  " 

He  would  have  said  it,  if  he  could.  He  would  have  raised 
his  hands  and  besought  her  for  pardon,  but  she  caught  them  in 
her  own,  and  put  them  down,  hurriedly. 

"  My  little  child  was  born  at  sea.  Papa.  I  prayed  to  God 
(and  so  did  Walter,  for  me)  to  spare  me,  that  1  might  come 
home.  The  moment  I  could  land,  I  came  back  to  you.  Never 
let  us  be  parted  any  more,  Papa  !  " 

His  head,  now  gray,  was  encircled  by  her  arm  ;  and  he 
groaned  to  think  that  never,  never,  had  it  rested  so  before. 

"  You  will  come  home  with  me.  Papa,  and  see  my  baby.  A 
boy,  Papa.     His  name  is  Paul.     I  think — 1  hope — he's  like — " 

Her  tears  stopped  her. 

"  Dear  Papa,  for  the  sake  of  my  child,  for  the  sake  of  the 
name  we  have  given  him,  for  my  sake,  pardon  Walter.  He  is 
50  kind  and  tender  to  me.     I  am  so  happy  with  him.     It  was 


goi  '  /WA//>-/;  V  AUD  SO  AT 

not  his  fault  that  we  were  married.  It  was  mine.  I  lovftd  him 
so  much." 

She  clung  closer  to  him,  more  endearing  and  more  earnest 

"  He  is  the  darling  of  my  heart,  Papa.  I  would  die  fo/ 
him.  He  will  love  and  honor  you  as  I  will.  We  will  teach 
our  little  child  to  love  and  honor  you  ;  and  we  will  tell  him, 
when  he  can  understand,  that  you  had  a  iion  of  that  name  once, 
and  that  he  died,  and  you  were  very  sorry  ;  but  that  he  is  gone 
to  Heaven,  where  we  all  hope  to  see  him  when  our  time  tor 
resting  comes.  Kiss  me,  Papa,  as  a  promise  that  you  will  be 
reconciled  to  Walter — to  my  dearest  husband — 1<?  the  father  of 
the  little  child  who  taught  me  to  come  back.  Papa.  Who 
taught  me  to  come  back  !  " 

As  she  clung  closer  to  him,  in  another  burst  of  tears,  he 
kissed  her  on  her  lips,  and,  lifting  up  his  eyes,  said,  "Oh,  my 
God,  forgive  me,  for  1  need  it  very  much  !  " 

With  that  he  dropped  his  head  again,  lamenting  over  and 
caressing  her,  and  there  was  not  a  sound  in  all  the  house  for 
a  long,  long  time  ;  they  remaining  clasped  in  one  another's 
arms,  in  the  glorious  sunshine  that  had  crept  in  with  Florence. 
He  dressed  himself  for  going  out,  with  a  docile  submission 
to  her  entreaty  ,  and  walking  with  a  feeble  gait,  and  looking 
back,  with  a  tremble,  at  the  room  in  which  he  had  been  so  long 
shut  up,  and  where  he  had  seen  the  picture  in  the  glass,  passed 
out  w^ith  her  into  the  hall.  Florence  hardly  glancing  round  her, 
lest  she  should  remind  him  freshly  of  their  last  parting — for 
their  feet  were  on  the  very  stones  where  he  had  struck  her  in 
his  madness — and  keeping  close  to  him,  with  her  eyes  upon  his 
face,  and  his  arm  about  her,  led  him  out  to  a  coach  that  was 
waiting  at  the  door,  and  carried  him  away. 

Then,  Miss  To.v  and  Polly  came  out  of  their  concealment, 
and  e.vulted  tearfully.  And  then  they  packed  his  clothes,  and 
books,  and  so  forth,  with  great  care  ;  and  consigned  them  in 
due  course  to  certain  persons  sent  by  Florence  in  the  evening, 
to  fetch  them.  And  then  they  took  a  last  cup  of  tea  in  the 
lonely  house. 

"  And  so  Dombey  and  Son,  as  I  observed  upon  a  certain 
sad  occasion,"  said  Miss  To.x,  winding  up  a  host  of  recollec- 
tions, "  is  indeed  a  daughter,  l^oUy,  after  all." 

"  And  a  good  one  !  "  exclaimed  Polly. 

"  You  are  right,"  said  Miss  Tox  ;  "  and  it's  a  credit  to  you, 
Polly  that  you  were  always  her  friend  when  she  was  a  little 
child.  V'ou  were  her  friend  long  before  1  was.  Polly  "  said 
Miss  Tox  ;  '*  and  you're  a  good  creature.  Robin  !  " 


RETRiJiUTJOX.  805 

Miss  Tox  addressed  herself  to  a  bullet-headed  young  man, 
who  appeared  to  be  in  but  incIilTerLMit  circumstances,  and  in 
depressed  spirits,  and  who  was  sitting  in  a  remote  corner. 
Rising,  he  disclosed  to  view  the  form  and  the  features  of  the 
Grinder. 

"  Robin,"  said  Miss  Tox,  "  I  have  just  observed  to  your 
mother,  as  you  may  have  heard,  that  she  is  a  good  crea- 
ture." 

**  And  so  she  is,  Miss,"  quoth  the  Grinder,  with  some  feel- 
ing. 

"Very  well,  Robin,"  said  Miss  Tox,  "I  am  glad  to  hear 
you  say  so.  Now,  Robin,  as  I  am  going  to  give  you  a  trial,  at 
your  urgent  request,  as  my  domestic,  with  a  view  to  your  res- 
toration to  respectability,  I  will  take  this  impressive  occasion 
of  remarking  that  I  hope  you  will  never  forget  that  you  have, 
and  have  always  had,  a  good  mother,  and  that  you  will  en- 
deavor so  to  conduct  yourself  as  to  be  a  comfort  to  her." 

"  Upon  my  soul  I  will,  Miss,"  returned  the  Grinder.  "  I 
have  come  through  a  good  deal,  and  my  intentions  is  now  as 
straight  for'ard.  Miss,  as  a  cove's — " 

"  I  must  get  you  to  break  yourself  of  that  word,  Robin,  if 
you  please,"  interposed  Miss  Tox,  politely. 

"  If  you  please,  Miss,  as  a  chap's — " 

"Thankee,  Robin,  no,"  returned  Miss  Tox.  "I  should 
prefer  individual." 

"As  an  indiwiddle's,"  said  the  Grinder. 

"Much  better,"  remarked  Miss  Tox,  complacently  ;  "in- 
finitely more  expressive  !  " 

" — Can  be,"  pursued  Rob.  "If  I  hadn't  been  and  got 
made  a  Grinder  on.  Miss  and  Mother,  which  was  a  most  unfor- 
tunate circumstance  for  a  young  co — indiwiddle." 

"  Very  good  indeed,"  observed  Miss  Tox,  approvingly. 

" — And  if  I  hadn't  been  led  away  by  birds,  and  then  fallen 
into  a  bad  service,"  said  tlie  Grinder,  "  I  hope  I  might  have  done 
better.     But  it's  never  too  late  for  a — " 

"  Indi — "  suggested  Miss  Tox. 

"  widdle,"  said  the  Grinder,  "  to  mend ;  and  I  hope  to 
mend.  Miss,  with  your  kind  trial :  and  wishing,  mother,  my 
love  to  father,  and  brothers  and  sisters,  and  saying  of  it." 

"  I  am  very  glad  indeed  to  hear  it,"  observed  Miss  Tox. 
"  Will  you  take  a  little  bread  and  butter,  and  a  cup  of  tea,  be- 
fore we  go,  Robin  ?  " 

"  Thankee,  Miss,"  returned  the  Grinder ;  who  immediately 
began  to  use  his  own  personal  grinders  in  a  most  remarkable 


$o4  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

manner  as  if  he  had  been  on  very  short  allowance  for  a  con. 
siderable  period. 

Miss  Tox  being,  in  good  time,  bonneted  and  shawled,  and 
Polly  too,  Rob  hugged  his  mother,  and  followed  his  new  mis- 
tress away ;  so  much  to  the  hopeful  admiration  of  Polly,  that 
something  in  her  eyes  made  luminous  rings  round  the  gas 
lamps  as  she  looked  after  him.  Polly  then  put  out  her  light, 
locked  the  house-door,  delivered  the  key  at  an  agent's  hard  by, 
and  went  home  as  fast  as  she  could  go;  rejoicing  in  the  shrill 
delight  that  her  unexpected  arrival  would  occasion  there. 
The  great  house,  dumb  as  to  all  that  had  been  suffered  in  it, 
and  the  changes  it  had  witnessed,  stood  frowning  like  a  dark 
mute  on  the  street ;  baulking  any  nearer  inquiries  with  the 
staring  announcement  that  the  lease  of  this  desirable  Family 
Mansion  was  to  be  disposed  of. 


CHAPTER   LX. 

CHIEFLY      MATRIMONIAL. 


The  grand  half-yearly  festival  holden  by  Dr.  and  Mrs. 
Blimber,  on  which  occasion  they  requested  the  pleasure  of  the 
company  of  every  young  gentleman  pursuing  his  studies  in  that 
genteel  establishment,  at  an  early  party,  when  the  hour  was 
half-past  seven  o'clock,  and  when  the  object  was  quadrilles, 
had  duly  taken  place,  about  this  time ;  and  the  young  gentle- 
men, with  no  unbecoming  demonstrations  of  levity,  had  betaken 
themselves,  in  a  state  of  scholastic  repletion,  to  their  own 
homes.  Mr.  Skettles  had  repaired  abroad,  permanently  to 
grace  the  establishment  of  his  father  Sir  Barnet  Skettles,  whose 
popular  manners  had  obtained  him  a  diplomatic  appointment, 
the  honors  of  which  were  discharged  by  himself  and  Lady 
Skettles,  to  the  satisfaction  even  of  their  own  countrymen  and 
countrywomen  :  which  was  considered  almost  miraculous.  Mr. 
Tozer,  now  a  young  man  of  lofty  stature,  in  Wellington  boots, 
was  so  extremely  full  of  antiquity  as  to  be  nearly  on  a  par  with 
a  genuine  ancient  Roman  in  his  knowledge  of  English  :  a 
triumph  that  affected  his  good  parents  with  the  tenderest  emo- 
tions, and  caused  the  fatlicr  and  m(;tlK-r  of  Mr.  Hriggs  (whose 
learning,  like  ill-arranged   luggage,  was  so  tightly  packed  Uiat 


CirrEFL  y  a/a  TRfMONlAL.  S05 

he  couldn't  get  at  anything  lie  wanted)  to  hide  their  diminished 
iieads.  The  fruit  hiboriously  gathered  from  the  tree  of  knowl 
edge  by  this  latter  young  gentleman,  in  fact,  had  been  subjected 
to  so  much  pressure,  that  it  had  become  a  kind  of  intellectual 
Norfolk  Biffin,  and  had  nothing  of  its  original  form  or  Havor 
remaining.  Master  Uitherstone  now,  on  whom  the  forcing 
system  had  the  happier  and  not  uncommon  elTect  of  leaving  no 
impression  whatever,  when  the  forcing  apparatus  ceased  to 
work,  was  in  a  much  more  comfortable  plight  ;  and  being  then 
on  shipboard,  bound  for  Ilengal,  found  himself  forgetting,  with 
such  admirable  rapidity,  that  it  was  doubtful  whether  his  de- 
clensions of  noun-substantives  would  hold  out  to  the  end  of  the 
voyage. 

When  Doctor  Blimber,  in  pursuance  of  the  usual  course, 
would  have  said  to  the  young  gentlemen,  on  the  morning  of  the 
party,  "  Gentlemen,  we  will  resume  our  studies  on  the  twenty- 
fifth  of  next  month,"  he  departed  from  the  usual  course,  and 
said,  "  Gentlemen,  when  our  friend  Cincinnatus  retired  to  his 
farm,  he  did  not  present  to  the  senate  any  Roman  whom  he 
sought  to  nominate  as  his  successor.  But  there  is  a  Roman 
here,"  said  Doctor  Blimber,  laying  his  hand  on  the  shoulder  of 
Mr.  Feeder,  B.A.,  '•'■  adolesccns  imf>rimis  gravis  et  doctus,  gentle- 
men, whom  I,  a  retiring  Cincinnatus,  wish  to  present  to  my 
little  senate,  as  their  future  Dictator.  Gentlemen,  we  will  re- 
sume our  studies  on  the  twenty-fifth  of  ne.\t  month,  under  the 
auspices  of  Mr.  Feeder,  B  .A.  "  At  this  (which  Doctor  Blimber 
had  previously  called  upon  all  the  parents,  and  urbanely  ex 
plained),  the  young  gentlemen  cheered  ;  and  Mr.  Tozer,  on 
I)chalf  of  the  rest,  rnstanlly  presented  the  Doctor  with  a  silver 
inkstand,  in  a  speech  containing  very  little  of  the  mother- 
tongue,  but  fifteen  cjuotations  (rom  the  Latin,  and  seven  from 
the  Greek,  which  moved  the  younger  of  the  young  gentlemen 
to  discontent  and  envy,  they  remarking,  "  Oh,  ah  !  It  was 
all  very  well  for  old  Tozer,  but  they  didn't  subscribe  money 
for  old  Tozer  to  show  off  with,  they  supposed  :  did  they  ? 
What  business  was  it  of  old  Tozer's  more  than  anybody  el.se  s  .^ 
It  wasn't  his  inkstand.  Why  couldn't  he  leave  the  boys'  prop 
erty  alone  .''  "  and  murmuring  other  expressions  of  their  dissatis- 
faction, which  seemed  to  find  a  greater  rebel  in  calling  him  old 
Tozer,  than  in  any  other  available  vent. 

Not  a  word  had  been  said  to  the  young  gentlemen,  nor  a 
hint  dropped,  of  anything  like  a  contemplated  marriage  between 
Mr.  Feeder,  B.A.,  and  the  fair  Cornelia  Blimber.  Doctor 
Blimber,  especially,  seemed  to  take  pains  to  look  as  if  nothing 


go6  DOMBE  V  AA'D  SOy. 

would  surprise  him  more  ;  but  it  was  perfectly  well  known  ta 
all  the  young  gentlemen  nevertheless,  and  when  they  departed 
for  the  society  of  their  relations  and  friends,  they  took  leave  of 
Mr.  Feeder  with  awe. 

Mr.  Feeder's  most  romantic  visions  were  fulfilled.  The 
Doctor  had  determined  to  paint  the  house  outside,  and  put  it  in 
thorough  repair  ;  and  to  give  up  the  business,  and  to  give  up 
Cornelia.  The  painting  and  repairing  began  upon  the  very  day 
of  the  young  gentlemen's  departure  and  now  behold  !  the  wed- 
ding morning  was  come,  and  Cornelia,  in  a  new  pair  of  spec- 
tacles, was  waiting  to  be  led  to  the  hymeneal  altar. 

The  Doctor  with  his  learned  legs,  and  Mrs.  Blimber  in  a 
lilac  bonnet,  and  Mr.  Feeder,  B.A.,  with  his  long  knuckles  and 
his  bristly  head  of  hair,  and  Mr  Feeder's  brother,  the  Rever- 
end Alfred  Feeder,  M.A.,  who  was  to  perform  the  ceremony, 
were  all  assembled  in  the  drawing-room,  and  Cornelia  with  her 
orange  flowers  and  bridesmaids  had  just  come  down,  and  look- 
ing, as  of  old,  a  little  squeezed  in  appearance,  but  very  charm- 
ing, when  the  door  opened,  and  the  weak-eyed  young  man,  in  a 
loud  voice,  made  the  following  proclamation  . 

"  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Toots  !  " 

Upon  which  there  entered  Mr.  Toots,  grown  extremely 
stout,  and  on  his  arm  a  lady  very  handsomely  and  becomingly 
dressed,  with  very  bright  black  eyes. 

"  Mrs.  Blimber,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  allow  me  to  present  my 
wife." 

Mrs.  Blimber  was  delighted  to  receive  her.  Mrs.  Blimber 
was  a  little  condescending,  but  extremely  kind. 

"  And  as  you've  known  me  for  a  long  time,  you  know," 
said  Mr.  Toots  "  let  me  assure  you  that  she  is  one  of  the  most 
remarkable  women  that  ever  lived." 

"My  dear!  "  remonstrated  Mrs.  Toots. 

"  Upon  my  word  and  honor  she  is,"  said  Mr.  Toots.  "  I — 
I  assure  you,  Mrs.  Blimber,  she's  a  most  extraordinary  wo- 
man." 

Mrs.  Toots  laughed  merrily,  and  Mrs.  Blimber  led  her  to 
Cornelia.  Mr  Toots  having  paid  his  respects  in  that  direc- 
tion, and  having  saluted  his  old  pieceptor,  who  said,  in  allusion 
to  his  conjugal  state,  "Well.  Toots,  well.  Toots!  So  you  are 
one  of  us,  are  you,  Toots  .'  " — retired  with  Mr.  Feeder,  B.A., 
into  a  window. 

Mr.  Feeder,  B.  A.,  being  in  great  spirits,  made  a  spar  at  Mr. 
Toots,  and  tapped  him  skilfully  with  the  back  of  his  hand  p?) 
the  breast -bone. 


CIllEFL  Y  MA  TKIMONIAL.  goy 

"  Well,  old  Buck  !  "  said  A[r.  Feeder  with  a  laugh.  "  Well  1 
Here  we  are.     Taken  in  and  done  for.     Kh  }  " 

"  Feeder,"  returned  Mr.  Toots.  "  I  j;ive  you  joy.  If  you're 
as — a.s — as  perfectly  blissful  in  a  matrimonial  life,  as  1  am 
myself,  you'll  liave  notlun^  to  desire." 

"  I  don't  forget  my  old  friends,  you  see,"  said  Mr.  Feeder. 
"  I  ask  'em  to  ;//j'  wedding,  Toots." 

"Feeder,"  replied  Mr.  Toots  gravely,  "the  fact  is,  that 
there  were  several  circumstances  which  prevented  me  from 
communicating  with  you  until  after  my  marriage  had  been  sol- 
emnized. In  the  fust  place,  I  had  made  a  perfect  lirute  of 
myself  to  you,  on  the  subject  of  Miss  Dombey  ;  and  I  felt  that 
if  you  were  asked  to  any  wedding  of  mine,  you  would  naturally 
expect  that  it  was  7i'i//i  Miss  Dombey,  which  imolved  ex])lana- 
tions,  that  upon  my  word  and  honor,  at  that  crisis,  would  have 
knocked  me  completely  over.  In  the  second  place,  our  wed- 
ding was  strictly  private  ;  there  being  nobody  present  but  one 
friend  of  myself  and  Mrs.  Toots's,  who  is  a  Captain  in — 1  don't 
exactly  know  in  what,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  but  it's  of  no  conse- 
quence. I  hope,  Feeder,  that  in  writing  a  statement  of  what 
had  occurred  before  Mrs.  Toots  and  myself  went  abroad  upon 
our  foreign  tour,  I  fully  discharged  the  offices  of  friendship." 

"Toots,  my  boy,"  said  Mr.  Feeder,  shaking  his  hands,  "  I 
was  joking." 

"  And  now.  Feeder,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  I  should  be  glad  to 
know  what  you  think  of  my  union." 

"  Capital  !  "  returned  Mr.  Feeder. 

"You  think  it's  capital,  do  you,  Feeder?"  said  Mr.  Toots 
solemnly.  "  Then  how  capital  must  it  be  to  Me.  Vor  you  can 
never  know  what  an  extraordinary  woman  that  is." 

Mr.  Feeder  was  willing  to  take  it  for  granted.  I>ur  Mr, 
Toots  shook  his  head,  and  wouldn't  hear  of  that  being  pos- 
sible. 

"You  see,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "what  /wanted  in  a  wife  was 
— in  short,  was  sense.  Money,  I-eeder,  I  had.  Sense  I— 1 
had  not,  particularly." 

"  Mr.  Feeder  murmured,  "Oh,  yes,  you  had.  Toots!  "  But 
Mr.  Toots  said  ; 

"  No,  Feeder,  I  had  fio/.  Why  should  I  disguise  it  ?  I  had 
nof.  I  knew  that  sense  was  There,"  said  Mr,  1  ools,  slretching 
out  his  hand  towards  his  wife.  "  in  Perfect  heaps.  I  had  no 
relation  to  object  or  be  oiTended,  on  the  score  of  station  ;  for  I 
had  no  relation.  I  have  never  had  anybody  belonging  to  me 
but  my  guardian,  and  him,  Feeder,  I  have  always  considered  as 


8oS  DOMBEV  AND  SON. 

a   Pirate  and  a   Corsair.      Therefore,   you  know  it  was   not 
likely,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  that  I  should  take  his  opinion." 

"  No,"  said  Mr.  Feeder. 

"  Accordingly,"  resumed  Mr.  Toots,  "  I  acted  on  my  own. 
Bright  was  the  day  on  which  I  did  so  !  Feeder  !  Nobody  but 
myself  can  tell  what  the  capacity  of  that  woman's  mind  is.  If 
ever  the  Rights  of  Women,  and  all  that  kind  of  thing,  are 
properly  attended  to,  it  will  be  through  her  powerful  intellect. 
■ — Susan,  my  dear  ! "  said  Mr.  Toots,  looking  abruptly  out  of 
the  window-curtains,  "  pray  do  not  exert  yourself  !  " 

"  My  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Toots,  "  1  was  only  talking." 

"  But,  my  love,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  pray  do  not  exert  your- 
self. You  really  must  be  careful.  Do  not,  my  dear  Susan, 
exert  yourself.  She's  so  easily  excited,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  apart 
to  Mrs.  Blimber,  "  and  then  she  forgets  the  medical  man  alto- 
gether." 

Mrs.  Blimber  was  impressing  on  Mrs.  Toots  the  necessity 
of  caution,  when  Mr.  Feeder,  B.A.,  offered  her  his  arm,  and 
led  her  down  to  the  carriages  that  were  in  waiting  to  go  to 
church.  Doctor  Blimber  escorted  Mrs.  Toots.  Mr.  Toots 
escorted  the  fair  bride,  around  whose  lambent  spectacles  two 
gauzy  little  bridesmaids  fluttered  like  moths.  Mr.  Feeder's 
brother,  Mr.  Alfred  Feeder,  M.A.,  had  already  gone  on,  in 
advance,  to  assume  his  official  functions. 

The  ceremony  was  performed  in  an  admirable  manner. 
Cornelia,  with  her  crisp  little  curls,  "  went  in,"  as  the  Chicken 
might  have  said,  with  great  composure  ;  and  Doctor  Blimber 
gave  her  away,  like  a  man  who  had  quite  made  up  his  mind  to 
it.  The  gauzy  little  bridesmaids  appeared  to  suffer  most. 
Mrs.  Blimber  was  affected,  but  gently  so ;  and  told  the  Rev- 
erend Mr.  Alfred  Feeder,  M.A.,  on  the  way  home,  that  if  she 
could  only  have  seen  Cicero  in  his  retirement  at  Tusculum,  she 
would  not  have  had  a  wish,  now,  ungratified. 

There  was  a  breakfast  afterwards,  limited  to  the  same  small 
party;  at  which  the  spirits  of  Mr.  Feeder,  B.A.,  were  tremen- 
dous, and  so  communicated  themselves  to  Mrs.  'I'oots  that  Mr. 
Toots  was  several  times  heard  to  observe,  across  the  table, 
"  My  dear  Susan,  lioii't  exert  yourself  !  "  The  best  of  it  was, 
that  Mr.  Toots  felt  it  incumbent  on  him  to  make  a  speech  ; 
and  in  spite  of  a  whole  code  of  telegraphic  dissuasions  from 
Mrs.  Toots,  appeared  on  his  legs  for  the  first  time  in  his  life. 

"  1  really,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  in  this  house,  where  whatever 
was  done  to  me  in  the  way  of — of  any  mental  confusion  some- 
times— which  is  of  no  consequence  and  I  impute  to  nobody — \ 


CFrfEFL  V  AfA  TRFAfOXrAL.  809 

«ras  always  treated  like  one  of  Doctor  Climber's  family,  and 
had  a  desk  to  myself  for  a  considerable  period — can — not — 
allow — my  friend  Feeder  to  be — " 

Mrs.  Toots  suggested  "married." 

"  It  m;iy  not  be  inappropriate  to  the  occasion,  or  altogether 
uninteresting,"  said  Mr.  Toots  with  a  delighted  face,  "  to  ob- 
serve that  my  wife  is  a  most  extraordinary  woman,  and  would 
do  this  much  better  that  myself — allow  my  friend  Feeder  to  be 
married — especially  to — " 

Mrs.  Toots  suggested  "  to  Miss  Blimber." 

"  To  Mrs.  Feeder,  my  love !  "  said  Mr.  Toots,  in  a  subdued 
tone  of  private  discussion  ;  "  '  whom  (iod  hath  joined,'  you 
know.  Met  no  man' — don't  you  know?  I  cannot  allow  my 
friend,  Feeder,  to  be  married — especially  to  Mrs.  Feeder — • 
without  proposing  their — their — Toasts  ;  and  may,"  said  Mr. 
Toots,  fixing  his  eyes  on  his  wife,  as  if  for  inspiration  in  a 
high  fiight,  "  may  the  torch  of  Hymen  be  the  beacon  of  joy, 
and  may  the  flowers  we  have  this  day  strewed  in  their  path, 
be  the — the  banishers  of — of  gloom  !  " 

Doctor  Hlimber,  who  had  a  taste  for  metaphor,  was  pleased 
with  this,  and  said,  "  Very  good,  Toots  I  Very  well  said,  in- 
deed, Toots  !  "  and  nodded  his  head  and  patted  his  hands. 
Mr.  Feeder  made,  in  reply,  a  comic  speech  chequered  with  sen- 
timent. Mr.  Alfred  Feeder,  M.  A.,  was  afterwards  very  happy 
on  Doctor  and  Mrs.  IJlimber  ;  Mr.  Feeder,  B.  A.,  scarcely  less 
so,  on  the  gauzy  little  bridesmaids.  Doctor  Blimber  then,  in  a 
sonorous  voice,  delivered  a  few  thoughts  in  the  pastoral  style, 
relative  to  the  rushes  among  which  it  was  the  intention  of  him- 
self and  Mrs.  Blimber  to  dwell,  and  the  bee  that  would  hum 
around  their  cot.  Shortly  after  which,  as  the  Doctor's  eyes 
were  twinkling  in  a  remarkable  manner,  and  his  son-in-law  had 
already  observed  that  time  was  made  for  slaves,  and  had 
inquired  whether  Mrs.  Toots  sang,  the  discreet  Mrs.  Blimber 
(dissolved  the  sitting,  and  sent  Cornelia  away,  very  cool  and 
comfortable,  in  a  post-chaise,  with  the  man  of  her  heart. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Toots  withdrew  to  the  Bedford  (Mrs.  Toots 
had  been  there  before  in  old  times,  under  her  maiden  name  of 
Nipper),  and  there  found  a  letter,  which  it  took  Mr.  Toots 
such  an  enormous  time  to  read,  that  Mrs.  Toots  was  fright- 
ened. 

"  My  dear  Susan,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  fright  is  worse  than 
exertion.     Pray  be  calm  !  " 

"  Who  is  it  from  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Toots. 

"Why,  my  love,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "it's  from  Captain  Gills, 


8lO  DOMBI:Y  AXD  SON. 

Do  not  excite  yourself.  Walters  and  Miss  Dombey  are  ex- 
pected home  !  " 

"  My  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Toots,  raising  herself  quickly  from 
the  sofa,  very  pale,  "  don't  try  to  deceive  me,  for  it's  no  use, 
tliey're  come  home — I  see  it  plainly  in  your  face  !  " 

"  She's  a  most  extraordinary  woman !  "  exclaimed  Mr. 
Toots,  in  rapturous  admiration,  "  You're  perfectly  right,  my 
love,  they  have  come  home.  Miss  Dombey  has  seen  her 
father,  and  they  are  reconciled  !  " 

"  Reconciled  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Toots,  clapping  her  hands. 

"  My  dear,"  said  Mr.  Toots ;  "  pray  do  not  exert  yourself. 
Do  remember  the  medical  man  !  Captain  Gills  says — at  least 
he  don't  saj',  but  I  imagine,  from  what  I  can  make  out,  he 
means — that  Miss  Dombey  has  brought  her  unfortunate  father 
away  from  his  old  house,  to  one  where  she  and  Walters  are 
living;  that  he  is  lying  very  ill  there — supposed  to  be  dying; 
and  that  she  attends  upon  him  night  and  day." 

Mrs.  Toots  began  to  cry  quite  bitterly. 

"  My  dearest  Susan,"  replied  Mr.  Toots,  "  do,  do,  if  you 
possibly  can,  remember  the  medical  man !  If  you  can't  it's  of 
no  consequence —  but  do  endeavor  to  !  " 

His  wife  with  her  old  manner  suddenly  restored,  so  pathet- 
ically entreated  him  to  take  her  to  her  precious  pet,  her  little 
mistress,  her  own  darling,  and  the  like,  that  Mr.  Toots,  whose 
sympathy  and  admiration  were  of  the  strongest  kind,  consented 
from  his  very  heart  of  hearts ;  and  they  agreed  to  depart 
immediately,  and  present  themselves  in  answer  to  the  Captain's 
letter. 

Now  some  hidden  sympathies  of  things,  or  some  coinci- 
dences, had  that  day  brought  the  Captain  himself  (toward 
whom  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Toots  were  soon  journe)ing),  into  the 
flowery  train  of  wedlock  ;  not  as  a  principle,  but  as  an  acces- 
sory.    It  happened  accidentally,  and  thus  : 

The  Captain,  having  seen  Florence  and  her  baby  for  a 
moment,  to  his  unbounded  content,  and  having  had  a  lung  talk 
with  Walter,  turned  out  for  a  walk  ;  feeling  it  necessary  to 
have  some  solitary  meditation  on  the  changes  of  human  affairs, 
and  to  shake  his  glazed  hat  profoundly  over  the  fall  of  Mr. 
Dombey,  for  whom  the  generosity  and  simplicity  of  his  nature 
were  a\vak(,'ned  in  a  lively  manner.  The  Captain  wuuld  have 
been  very  low,  indeed,  on  the  unhappy  gentleman's  account, 
but  for  the  recollection  of  the  baby ;  which  afforded  him  such 
intense  satisfaction  whenever  it  arose,  that  he  laughed  aloud 
as  he  went  along  the  street,  and,  indeed,  more  than  once,  in  :i 


r////?/7. )'  .1M  TRlMOXfAL  8 1  I 

sudden  impulse  of  jc^y,  threw  up  his  >;l;i7cd  hat  and  caught 
it  again  ;  much  to  tiic  amazement  of  tlie  speclatois.  The 
rapid  aUernations  of  light  and  shade  to  wliich  these  two  con- 
flicting subjects  of  reflection  exposed  (he  Captain,  were  so  very 
trying  to  his  spirits,  that  he  fell  a  long  walk  necessary  to  his 
composure,  and  as  there  is  a  great  deal  in  the  mfluence  ot 
harmonious  associations,  he  chose,  for  the  scene  of  his  walk, 
his  old  neighborhood,  down  among  the  mast,  oar,  and  block- 
makers,  sliip-biscuit  bakers,  coal  whippers,  pilch-kettles,  sailors, 
canals,  docks,  swing  bridges,  and  other  soothing  objects. 

These  peaceful  scenes,  and  j^arlicularly  the  region  of  Lime- 
house-Hole  and  thereabouts,  were  so  inlluential  in  calming  the 
Captam,  that  he  walked  on  with  restored  tranqudlity,  and  was, 
in  fact,  regaling  himself,  under  his  breath,  with  the  ballad  of 
Lovely  Peg,  when,  on  turnmg  a  corner,  he  was  suddenly  trans- 
fixed and  rendered  speechless  by  a  triumphant  procession  that 
he  beheld  advancing  towards  him. 

'i'liis  awful  demonstration  was  headed  by  that  determined 
woman,  Mrs.  MacSlinger,  who,  preserving  a  countenance  of 
inexorable  resolution,  and  wearing  conspicuously  attached  to 
her  obdurate  bosom  a  stupendous  watch  and  appendages,  which 
the  Captain  recognized  at  a  glance  as  the  property  of  Bunsby, 
conducted  under  her  arm  no  other  than  that  sagacious  mar- 
iner ;  he,  with  the  distraught  and  melancholy  visage  of  a  cap- 
tive borne  into  a  foreign  land,  meekly  resigning  himself  to  lier 
will.  Behind  them  appeared  the  young  ]\LicSiingers,  in  a  body, 
exulting.  Behind  them,  two  ladies  of  a  teirible  and  steadfast 
aspect,  leading  between  them  a  short  gentleman  in  a  tall  hat, 
who  likewise  exulted.  In  the  wake,  appeared  Bunsby's  boy, 
bearing  umbrellas.  'I'he  whole  were  in  good  marching  order ; 
and  a  dreadful  smartness  that  pervaded  the  party  would  have 
sufficiently  announced,  if  the  intrepid  couiucnances  of  the 
, ladies  had  been  wanting,  that  it  was  a  procession  of  sacrifice, 
^and  that  the  victim  was  Bunsby. 

The  first  impulse  of  the  Captain  was  to  run  away.  This 
also  appeared  to  be  the  first  impulse  of  Bunsby,  hopeless  as  its 
execution  must  have  proved.  lUit  a  cry  of  recognition  pro- 
ceeding from  the  j^iarty,  and  Alexander  AlacStinger  running  up 
to  the  Captain  with  open  arms,  the  Captain  struck. 

"Well,  Cap'en  Cuttle!"  said  Mrs.  MacSlinger.  "This  is 
indeed  a  meeting!  I  bear  no  malice  now.  Cap'en  Cuttle — you 
needn't  fear  that  I'm  a  going  to  cast  any  i ejections.  I  hope 
to  go  to  the  altar  in  another  spirit."  Here  Mrs.  MacSlinger 
paused,  and  drawing  herself  .un.  and  inflating  her  bosom   with 


8 1 2  Do.^rnr.  v  and  soa". 

a  long  breath,  said,  in  allusion  to  the  victim,  "My  'usbant^ 
Cap'en  Cuttle  !  " 

Tiie  abject  Bunsby  looked  neither  to  the  right  nor  to  th« 
le-ft,  nor  at  his  bride,  nor  at  his  friend,  but  straight  before  him 
at  nothing.  The  Captain  putting  out  his  hand,  IJunsby  put 
out  his;  but^  in  answer  to  the  Captain's  greeting,  spake  no 
word. 

"  Cap'en  Cuttle,"  said  Mrs.  MacStinger,  "  if  you  would  wish 
to  heal  up  past  animosities,  and  to  see  the  last  of  your  friend, 
my  'usband,  as  a  single  person,  we  should  be  'appy  of  your  com- 
pany to  chapel.  Here  is  a  lady  here,"  said  Mrs.  MacStinger, 
turning  round  to  the  more  intrepid  of  the  two,  "  my  bridesmaid, 
that  will  be  glad  of  your  protection,  Cap'en  Cuttle." 

The  short  gentleman  in  the  tall  hat,  who  it  appeared  was 
the  husband  of  the  other  lady,  and  who  evidently  exulted  at 
the  reduction  of  a  fellow-creature  to  his  own  condition,  gave 
place  to  this,  and  resigned  the  lady  to  Captain  Cuttle.  The 
lady  immediately  seized  him,  and,  observing  that  there  was  no 
time  to  lose,  gave  the  word,  in  a  strong  voice,  to  advance. 

The  Captain's  concern  for  his  friend,  not  unmingled,  at 
first,  with  some  concern  for  himself — for  a  shadowy  terror  that 
he  might  be  married  by  violence,  possessed  him,  until  his 
knowledge  of  the  service  came  to  his  relief,  and  remembering 
the  legal  obligation  of  saying,  "  I  will,"  he  felt  himself  person- 
ally safe  so  long  as  he  resolved,  if  asked  any  question,  dis- 
tinctly to  reply  "  I  won't " — threw  him  into  a  profuse  perspira- 
tion ;  and  rendered  him,  for  a  time,  insensible  to  the  movements 
of  the  procession,  of  wliich  he  now  formed  a  feature,  and  to 
the  conversation  of  his  fair  companion.  But  as  he  becam* 
less  agitated,  he  learnt  from  this  lady  that  she  was  the  widow  of 
a  Mr.  Bokum,  who  had  held  an  employment  in  the  Custom 
House  ;  that  she  was  the  dearest  friend  of  Mrs.  MacStinger, 
whom  she  considered  a  pattern  for  her  sex  ;  that  she  had  often 
heard  of  the  Captain,  and  now  hoped  he  had  repented  of  liis 
past  life ;  that  she  trusted  Mr.  Bunsby  knew  what  a  blessing 
he  had  gained,  but  that  she  feared  men  seldom  did  know  what 
such  blessings  were,  until  they  had  lost  them;  with  more  to 
the  same  purpose. 

All  this  time,  the  Captain  could  not  but  observe  that  Mrs. 
Bokum  kept  her  eyes  steadily  on  the  bridegroom,  and  thai 
whenever  they  came  near  a  court  or  other  narrow  turning  which 
appeared  favorable  for  flight,  she  was  on  the  alert  to  cut  him 
off  if  he  attempted  escape  The  other  lady,  too,  as  well  as 
her  husband,  the  short  gentleman  with  the  tall  hat,  were  plainly 


C  lilEl'L  \ '  MA  1  KIMOA'JA  L.  813 

on  guard,  accordinj;  to  a  preconcerted  plan ;  and  tlie  wretched 
man  was  so  secured  by  Mrs.  MacStin<;er,  that  any  elTort  at 
self-preservation  by  flight  was  rendered  futile.  This,  indeed, 
was  apparent  to  the  UKire  populace,  who  expressed  their  per- 
ception of  the  fact  by  jeers  and  cries  ;  to  all  of  which,  the  dread 
MacStinger  was  inllexibly  indifferent,  while  Bunsby  himself 
appeared  in  a  state  of  unconsciousness. 

The  Captain  made  many  attempts  to  accost  the  philoso- 
pher, if  only  in  a  monosyllable  or  a  signal  ;  but  always  failed, 
in  consequence  of  the  vigilance  of  the  guard,  and  the  difllculty, 
at  all  times  peculiar  to  Ikmsby's  constitution,  of  having  his 
attention  aroused  by  any  outward  and  visible  sign  whatever. 
Thus  they  approached  the  cliapel,  a  neat  whitewasiied  edifice, 
recently  engaged  by  the  Reverend  Melchisedech  Howler,  who 
had  consented,  on  very  urgent  solicitation,  to  give  the  world 
another  two  years  of  existence,  but  had  informed  his  followers 
that,  then,  it  must  positively  go. 

While  the  Reverend  Melchisedech  was  offering  up  some  ex- 
temporary orisons,  the  Captain  found  an  opportunity  of  growl- 
ing in  the  bridegroom's  ear  : 

"  What  cheer,  my  lad,  what  cheer  ? " 

To  which  Bunsby  replied,  with  a  forgetfulness  of  the  Rever- 
end Melchisedech,  which  nothing  but' his  desperate  circum- 
stances could  have  excused  : 

"  D d  bad." 

"Jack  Bunsby,"  whispered  the  Captain,  "  do  you  mean  ihis 
here,  o'  your  own  free  will  ?  " 

Mr.  Bunsby  answered  "  No." 

"  Why  do  you  do  it,  then,  my  lad  ? "  inquired  the  Captain, 
not  unnaturally. 

Bunsby,  still  looking,  and  always  looking  with  an  immov- 
able countenance,  at  the  opposite  side  of  the  world,  made  no 
reply. 

"  Why  not  sheer  ofT  ?  "  said  the  Captain. 

"  Eh  ?  "  whispered  ]]unsby,  with  a  momentary  gleam  of  hope. 

"  Sheer  off,"  said  the  Captain. 

"  Where's  the  good  ?"  retorted  the  forlorn  sage.  "She'd 
capter  me  agen." 

"  Try  !  "  replied  the  Captain.  "  Cheer  up  I  Come  !  Now's 
your  time.     Sheer  off.  Jack  Bunsby  !  " 

Jack  P.unsby,  however,  instead  of  profiting  by  the  advice, 
said  in  a  doleful  whisper  : 

"  It  all  began  in  that  there  chest  o  yourn.  Why  did  I  ever 
cpnwoy  her  into  port  that  night? " 


Si  4  bOMii  EY  A  A'D  so  a; 

"  My  lad,"  faltered  the  Captain,  "  I  tliought  as  you  had 
come  over  her  ;  not  as  she  had  come  over  you.  A  man  as  has 
got  such  opinions  as  you  have  !  " 

Mr.  Ikinsby  merely  uttered  a  suppressed  groan. 

"Come!  "  said  the  Captain,  nudging  him  with  his  elbow, 
••  now's  your  time  !  Sheer  off  !  I'll  cover  your  retreat.  The 
time's  a  flying.     Bunsby!     It's  for  liberty.     Will  you  once  ?  " 

Bunsby  was  immovable. 

"Bunsby!  "  whispered  the  Captain,  "will  you  twice.?" 

Bunsby  wouldn't  twice. 

'*  Bunsby  !  "  urged  the  Captain,  "  it's  for  liberty  ;  will  you 
three  times  1     Now  or  never  !  " 

Bunsby  didn't  then,  and  didn't  ever  ;  for  Mrs.  MacStinger 
immediately  afterwards  married  him. 

One  of  the  most  frightful  circumstances  of  the  ceremony  to 
the  Captain,  was  the  deadly  interest  exhibited  therein  by  Juli- 
ana MacStmger ;  and  the  fatal  concentration  of  her  faculties, 
with  which  that  promising  child,  already  the  image  of  her  pa- 
rent, observed  the  whole  proceedings.  The  Captain  saw  in  this 
a  succession  of  man-traps  stretching  out  ii^finitely ;  a  series  of 
ages  of  oppression  and  coercion,  through  which  the  seafaring 
line  was  doomed.  It  was  a  more  memorable  sight  than  the 
unflinching  steadiness  of  Mrs.  Bokuni  and  the  other  lady,  the 
exultation  of  the  short  gentleman  in  tlie  tall  hat,  or  even  the 
fell  inflexibility  of  Mrs.  MacStinger.  The  Master  MacStingers 
understood  little  of  what  was  going  on,  and  cared  less  ;  bein^- 
chiefly  engaged,  during  the  ceremony,  in  treading  on  one  an- 
other's half-boots  ;  but  the  contrast  afforded  by  those  wretched 
infants  only  set  off  and  adorned  the  precocious  woman  in  Juli- 
ana. Another  year  or  two,  the  Captain  thought,  and  to  lodge 
where  that  child  was,  would  be  destruction. 

The  ceremony  was  concluded  by  a  general  spring  of  the 
young  family  on  i\Ir.  Ikinsby,  whom  they  hailed  by  tlie  endear- 
ing name  of  father,  and  from  whom  they  solicited  halfpence. 
'I'hese  gushes  of  affection  o\er,  the  procession  was  alxxit  to 
issue  fortli  again,  when  it  was  delayed  for  some  little  time  by  an 
unexpected  transport  on  the  part  of  Alexander  MacStinger, 
That  dear  child,  it  seemed,  connecting  a  chapel  with  tomb- 
stones, when  it  was  entered  for  any  purpose  apart  from  the  or- 
dinary leiigious  exercises,  could  not  be  persuaded  but  that  his 
mother  was  now  to  be  decently  interred,  and  lost  to  him  for 
ever.  In  tlie  anguish  of  this  coiniction,  he  screamed  with  as' 
tonishing  force,  and  turned  black  in  tlie  face.  However  touch- 
ing these  marks  of  a  tender  disposition  wore  to  his  mother,  it 


CJ//H/'I.  )'  .\f.4  TUiMoXJ.a.  8,5 

was  not  in  the  character  of  that  rcinaikahle  woman  10  permit 
her  recoL^nilion  of  tliem  to  ilc^^cnciate  into  wc-aknf^s  There 
fore,  after  vainly  endeavorinr;  to  convince  his  reason  hy  shakes, 
pokes,  bawl ings  out,  and  similar  applications  to  his  head,  she 
led  him  into  the  air,  and  tried  another  nicihod  ,  whicli  was 
manifested  to  the  marriage  party  by  a  quick  succession  of 
sharp  sounds,  resembling  ajiplause,  and  subseciuciuly,  by  then 
seemg  Alexander  in  contact  with  the  coolest  paving  stone  in 
the  court,  greatly  flushed,  and  loudly  lamenting. 

The  procession  being  then  in  a  condition  to  form  itself 
once  more,  and  repair  to  Urig  l^lace,  where  a  marriage  feast 
was  in  readiness,  returned  as  it  had  come  ;  not  without  the  re- 
ceipt, by  Bunsby,  of  many  humorous  congratulations  from  the 
populace  on  his  recently-accjuired  happiness.  The  Captain 
accompanied  it  as  far  as  the  house  door,  but,  being  made  un- 
easy by  the  gentler  manner  of  Mrs.  liokum,  who,  now  that  she 
was  relieved  from  her  engrossing  duty — for  the  watchfulness 
and  alacrity  of  the  ladies  sensibly  diminished  when  the  bride- 
groom was  safely  married — iiad  greater  leisure  to  show  an  in- 
terest in  his  behalf,  there  left  it  and  the  captive  ,  faintly  plead- 
ing an  appointment,  and  jiromising  to  return  presently.  The 
Captain  had  another  cause  for  uneasiness,  in  remorsefully  re- 
flecting that  he  had  been  the  first  means  of  J]unsby"s  entrap- 
ment, though  certainly  without  intending  it,  and  through  his 
unbounded  faith  in  the  resources  of  that  philosopher. 

To  go  back  to  old  Sol  Gills  at  the  Wooden  Midshipman's 
and  noi  first  go  round  to  ask  how  Mr.  Dombey  fated— albeit 
the  house  where  he  lay  was  out  of  London,  and  away  on  the 
borders  of  a  fresh  heath — was  quite  out  of  the  Captain's  course. 
So  he  got  a  lift  when  he  was  tired,  and  made  out  the  journey  gayly. 

The  blinds  were  jHilled  down,  and  the  house  so  (|uiet,  that 
the  Captain  was  almost  afraid  to  knock  ;  but  listening  at  the 
door,  he  heard  low  voices  within,  very  near  it,  and,  knocking 
softly,  was  admitted  by  Mr.  Toots.  Mr.  Toots  and  his  wife  had, 
in  fact,  just  arrived  there  ,  having  been  at  the  Midshipman's  to 
seek  him,  and  having  there  obtained  the  address. 

They  were  not  so  recently  arrived,  but  that  Mrs.  'I'oots  had 
caught  the  baby  from  somebody,  taken  it  in  her  arms,  and  sat 
down  on  the  stairs,  hugging  and  fondling  it.  I'lorence  was 
stooping  down  beside  her  ;  and  no  one  could  liave  said  which 
Mrs  Toots  was  hugging  and  fondling  most,  the  mother  or  the 
child,  or  which  was  the  tenderer,  Florence  of  Mrs.  Toots,  or 
Mrs.  Toots  of  her,  or  both  of  the  baby  ;  it  was  such  a  little  group 
of  love  and  agitation. 


^  1 6  bOMBE  y  AAV  soM 

"  And  is  your  Pa  very  ill,  my  darling,  dear  Miss  Floy  > " 
asked  Susan. 

"  He  is  very,  very  ill,"  said  Florence.  "  But,  Susan,  dear, 
you  must  not  speak  to  me  as  you  used  to  speak.  And  what's 
this?"  said  Florence,  touching  her  clothes,  in  amazement. 
"  Your  old  dress,  dear  ?     Your  old  cap,  curls,  and  all  ?  " 

Susan  burst  into  tears,  and  showered  kisses  on  the  little 
hand  that  had  touched  her  so  wonderingly. 

"  My  dear  Miss  Dombey,"  said  Mr.  Teots,  stepping  for- 
ward, "  I'll  explain.  She's  the  most  extraordinary  woman. 
There  are  not  many  to  equal  her !  She  has  always  said — she 
said  before  we  were  married,  and  has  said  to  this  day — that 
whenever  you  came  home,  she'd  come  to  you  in  no  dress  but 
the  dress  she  used  to  serve  you  in,  for  fear  she  might  seem 
strange  to  you,  and  you  might  like  her  less.  I  admire  the  dress 
myself,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  of  all  things,  I  adore  her  in  it ! 
My  dear  Miss  Dombey,  she'll  be  your  maid  again,  your  nurse, 
all  that  she  ever  was,  and  more.  There's  no  change  in  her. 
But,  Susan,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  who  had  spoken  w^ith 
great  feeling  and  high  admiration,  "  all  I  wish  is,  that  you'll  re- 
member the  medical  man,  and  not  exert  yourself  too  much." 


CHAPTER  LXI. 

RELENTING. 


Florence  had  need  of  help.  Her  father's  need  of  it  was 
sore,  and  made  the  aid  of  her  old  friend  invaluable.  Death 
stood  at  his  pillow.  A  shade,  already,  of  what  he  had  been, 
shattered  in  mind,  and  perilously  sick  in  body,  he  laid  his 
weary  head  down  on  the  bed  his  daughter's  hands  prepared  for 
him,  and  had  never  raised  it  since. 

She  was  always  with  him,  I  le  knew  her,  generally  ;  though, 
in  the  wandering  of  his  brain,  he  often  confused  the  circum- 
stances under  which  he  spoke  to  her.  Thus  he  would  address 
her,  sometimes,  as  if  hi;  boy  were  newly  dead;  and  would  tell 
her,  that  although  he  had  :  li..  .othing  i  her  ministering  at  the 
little  bedside,  yet  he  .'lad  seen  ^  he  had  seen  ii  ;  and  then 
would  hide  his  face  .  i\d  sob,  ;"ul  put  out  his  worn  hand.  Some- 
.times  he  would  ask  her  for  herself.  "  \\'hcre  is  Florence  ?  "— 
*  i  am  here,  Papa,  1  am  here."    *'  I  don't  know  her  I"  he  woul4 


RELEA'TIXG.  817 

cry.  "  Wc  Ivave  been  parted  so  lonsjj,  that  I  don't  know  her  !  " 
and  then  a  staring  dread  would  be  upon  him,  until  she  could 
sootJie  his  perturbation  ;  and  recall  the  tears  she  tried  so  hard, 
at  other  times,  to  dry. 

lie  rambled  through  the  scenes  of  his  old  pursuits — through 
many  where  Florence  lost  him  as  she  listened — sometimes  for 
hours.  He  would  repeat  that  childish  question,  "  What  is 
money  ?  "  and  ponder  on  it,  and  think  about  it  and  reason  with 
himself,  more  or  less  connectedly,  for  a  good  answer ;  as  if  it 
had  never  been  proposed  to  him  until  that  moment.  He  would 
go  on  with  a  musing  repetition  of  the  title  of  his  old  firm  twenty 
thousand  times,  and  at  every  one  of  them  would  turn  his  head 
upon  his  pillow.  He  would  count  his  children — one — two — 
stop,  and  go  back,  and  begin  again  in  the  same  way. 

Hut  this  was  when  his  mind  was  in  its  most  distracted  state. 
In  all  the  other  phases  of  its  illness,  and  in  those  to  which  it 
was  most  constant,  it  always  turned  on  Florence.  What  he 
would  oftenest  do  was  this  :  he  would  recall  that  night  he  had 
so  recently  remembered,  the  night  on  which  she  came  down  to 
his  room,  and  would  imagine  that  his  heart  smote  him,  and  that 
he  went  out  after  her,  and  up  the  stairs  to  seek  her.  Then, 
confounding  that  time  w  ilh  the  later  days  of  the  many  footsteps, 
he  would  be  amazed  at  their  number,  and  begin  to  count  them 
as  he  followed  her.  Here,  of  a  sudden,  was  a  bloody  footstep 
going  on  among  the  others ;  and  after  it  there  began  to  be,  at 
intervals,  doors  standing  open,  through  which  certain  terrible 
pictures  were  seen,  in  mirrors,  of  haggard  men,  concealing 
something  in  their  breasts.  Still,  among  the  many  footsteps 
and  the  bloody  footsteps  here  and  there,  was  the  step  of  Flor- 
ence. Still  she  was  going  on  before.  Still  the  restless  mind 
went,  following  and  counting,  ever  farther,  ever  higher,  as  to 
the  summit  of  a  mighty  tower  that  it  took  years  to  climb. 

One  day  he  inquired  if  that  were  not  Susan  who  had  spoker; 
a  long  while  ago. 

Florence  said  "  Yes,  dear  Papa  ;  "  and  asked  him  would  he 
like  to  see  her  ? 

He  said  "  very  much."  And  Susan,  with  no  little  trepida- 
tion, showed  herself  at  his  bedside. 

It  seemed  a  great  relief  to  him.  He  begged  her  not  to  go ; 
to  understand  that  he  forgave  her  what  she  had  said;  and  that 
she  was  to  stay.  Florence  and  he  were  very  different  now,  he 
said,  and  very'happy.  Let  her  look  at  this  !  He  meant  his 
drawing  the  gentle  head  down  to  his  pillow,  and  laying  it  beside 
him. 


8 1 S  D  OMBE  V  JA'J?  SO,V. 

He  remained  like  this  for  days  and  weeks.  At  lengtli,  lyin;^ 
the  faint  feeble  semblance  of  a  man,  upon  his  bed,  and  speak- 
ing in  a  voice  so  low  that  they  could  only  hear  him  by  listening 
very  near  to  his  lips,  he  became  quiet.  It  was  dimly  pleasant 
to  him  now,  to  lie  there,  with  the  window  open,  looking  out  at 
the  summer  sky  and  the  trees  ;  and,  in  the  evening,  at  the  sun- 
set, to  watch  the  shadows  of  the  clouds  and  leaves,  and  seem 
to  feel  a  sympathy  with  shadows.  It  was  natural  that  he  should. 
To  him,  life  and  the  world  were  nothing  else. 

He  began  to  show  now  that  he  thought  of  Florence's  fatigue  ; 
and  often  taxed  his  weakness  to  whisper  to  her,  "  go  and  walk, 
my  dearest,  in  the  sweet  air.  Go  to  your  good  husband  !  " 
One  time  when  Walter  was  in  his  room,  he  beckoned  him  to 
come  near,  and  to  stoop  down  ;  and  pressing  his  hand  whispered 
an  assurance  to  him  that  he  knew  he  could  trust  him  with  his 
child  when  he  was  dead. 

It  chanced  one  evening,  towards  sunset,  when  Florence  and 
Walter  were  sitting  in  his  room  together,  as  he  liked  to  see 
them,  that  Florence,  having  her  baby  in  her  arms,  began  in  a 
low  voice  to  sing  to  the  little  fellow,  and  sang  the  old  tune  she 
had  so  often  sung  to  the  dead  child.  He  could  not  bear  it  at 
the  time  ;  he  held  up  his  trembling  hand,  imploring  her  to  stop  ; 
but  next  day  he  asked  her  to  repeat  it,  and  to  do  so  often  of  an 
evening  ;  which  she  did.  lie  listening,  with  his  face  turned 
away. 

Florence  was  sitting  on  a  certain  time  by  his  window,  with 
her  work-basket  between  her  and  her  old  attendant,  who  was 
still  her  faithful  companion.  He  had  fallen  into  a  doze.  It 
was  a  beautiful  evening,  with  two  hours  of  light  to  come  yet; 
and  the  tranquillity  and  quiet  made  Florence  very  thoughtful. 
Siie  was  lost  to  everything  for  the  moment,  but  the  occasion 
when  the  so  altered  iigure  on  the  bed  had  first  presented  her  to 
her  beautiful  mama  ;  when  a  touch  from  Walter  leaning  on  the 
back  of  her  chair,  made  her  start. 

"  My  dear,"  said  Walter,  "  there  is  some  one  down  stairs 
who  wishes  to  speak  to  you." 

She  fancied  \\'aller  looked  grave,  and  asked  him  if  anything 
had  happened. 

"  No,  no,  my  love  !  "  said  Walter,  "  I  have  seen  the  gentle- 
man myself,  and  spoken  with  him.  Nothing  has  happened. 
Will  you  come  ?  " 

Florence  put  her  arm  through  his ;  and  confiding  her 
father  to  the  black-eyed  Mrs.  Toots,  who  sat  as  brisk  and 
smart  at  her  work  as  black-eyed  woman  could,  accompanied  !ief 


RF.LEXTIXa  g,q 

husband  down  stairs  In  the  pleasant  little  parlor  opcnin^^  on 
tlie  garden,  sat  a  gentleman  wlio  rose  to  advance  towards  hef 
wlien  siie  came  m,  but  turned  off,  by  reason  of  some  peculiarity 
in  his  legs,  and  was  only  stopped  by  the  table. 

Florence  then  n-ineinbered  C'ousin  I'eenix,  whom  she  had  not 
at  first  recognized  in  the  shade  of  the  leaves.  (Jousin  Feenix 
took  her  hand,  and  congratulated  her  upon  her  marriage. 

"  I  could  have  wished,  I  am  sure,"  said  Cousin  Feenix, 
silting  down  as  I'Morencesat,  "to  have  had  an  earlier  opportunity 
of  olTering  my  congratulations  :  but,  in  pomt  of  fact,  so  manv 
pauiful  occurrences  have  happened,  trcadmg,  as  a  man  may  say 
on  one  another's  heels,  tliac  I  ha\e  been  in  a  devil  of  a  state 
myself,  and  perfectly  unfit  for  every  description  of  society. 

The  only  description  of  society  I  have  kept,  lias  been  my 

own  ;  and  it  ceitainly  is  anything  but  flattering  to  a  man's  good 

opinion  of  his  own  resources,  to  know  that,  in  point  of  faci,  he 

has   the   capacity  of  boring  himself  to  a  perfectly   unlimited 

■"extent." 

Florence  divined,  from  some  indefinable  constraint  and 
anxiety  in  this  gentleman's  manner — which  was  always  a  gentle- 
man's, in  spite  of  the  harmless  little  eccentricities  that  attache:! 
to  it — and  from  \\'alter's  manner  no  less,  that  something  more 
immediately  tending  to  some  object  was  to  follow  this. 

"  I  have  been  mentioning  to  my  friend  I\[r.  Gay,  if  I  may  be 
allowed  to  have  the  honor  of  calling  him  so,"  said  Cousin 
Feenix,  "  that  I  am  rejoiced  to  hear  that  my  friend  Dombey  is 
very  decidedly  mending  I  trust  my  friend  Dombey  will  not 
allow  his  mind  to  be  too  much  preyed  upon,  by  any  mete  loss 
of  fortune.  I  cannot  say  that  I  have  ever  experienced  any  very 
great  loss  of  fortune  myself  .  ne\er  having  had,  in  point  of  fact', 
any  great  amount  of  fortune  to  lose.  Iiut  as  much  as  I  could 
lose,  I  have  lost  ,  and  [  don't  find  that  I  particularly  care  about 
it.  I  know  my  friend  Dombey  to  beade\ilish  honorable  man  ; 
and  it's  calculated  to  console  my  friend  Dombey  very  much,  to 
know,  that  this  is  the  universal  sentiment.  i'!\en  Tommy 
Screwzer, — a  man  of  an  extremely  bilious  habit,  with  whom  my 
friend  Gay  is  probably  acquainted — cannot  say  a  syllable  in 
disputation  of  the  fact." 

Florence  felt,  more  than  ever,  that  there  was  something  to 
come;  and  looked  earnestly  for  it  So  earnestly,  that  Cousin 
Feenix  answered,  as  if  she  had  spoken. 

"The  fact  is,"  said  Cousin  Feenix,  "  that  my  friend  Gay 
and  myself  have  been  discussing  the  propriety  of  entreating  a 
favor  at  your  hands  ,  and  that  I  have  ihe  consent  of  my  friend 


82  o  DOM  BEY  AXD  SON. 

Gay —  who  has  met  me  in  an  exceedingly  kind  and  open  man- 
ner, for  which  I  am  very  much  indebted  to  him — to  solicit  it. 
I  am  sensible  that  so  amiable  a  lady  as  the  lovely  and  accom- 
plished daughter  of  my  friend  Dombey,  will  not  require  much 
urging ;  but  I  am  happy  to  know,  that  I  am  supported  by  my 
friend  Gay's  influence  and  approval.  As  in  my  parliamentary 
time,  when  a  man  had  a  motion  to  make  of  any  sort — which 
happened  seldom  in  those  days,  for  we  were  kept  very  tight  in 
hand,  the  leaders  on  both  sides  being  regular  Martinets,  which 
was  a  devilish  good  thing  for  the  rank  and  file,  like  myself,  and 
prevented  our  exposing  ourselves  continually,  as  a  great  many 
of  us  had  a  feverish  anxiety  to  do — as,  in  my  parliamentary 
time  I  was  about  to  say,  when  a  man  had  leave  to  let  off  any 
little  private  popgun,  it  was  always  considered  a  great  point  for 
him  to  say  that  he  had  the  happiness  of  believing  that  his  senti- 
ments were  not  without  an  echo  in  the  breast  of  Mr.  Pitt ;  the 
pilot  in  point  of  fact,  who  had  weathered  the  storm.  Upon 
which,  a  devilish  large  number  of  fellows  immediately  cheered, 
and  put  him  in  spirits.  Though  the  fact  is,  that  these  fellows, 
being  under  orders  to  cheer  most  excessively  whenever  Mr. 
Pitt's  name  was  mentioned,  became  so  proficient  that  it  always 
woke  'em.  And  they  were  so  entirely  innocent  of  what  was 
going  on,  otherwise,  that  it  used  to  be  commonly  said  by  Con- 
versation Brown — four  bottle  man  at  the  Treasury  Board,  with 
whom  the  father  of  my  friend  Gay  was  probably  acquainted,  for 
it  was  before  my  friend  Gay's  time — that  if  a  man  had  risen  in 
his  place,  and  said  that  he  regretted  to  inform  the  house  that 
there  was  an  Honorable  Member  in  the  last  stage  of  convulsions 
in  the  Lobby,  and  that  the  Honorable  IMcmber's  name  was 
Pitt,  the  approbation  would  have  been  vociferous." 

This  postponement  of  the  point,  put  Florence  into  a  flutter  ; 
and  she  looked  from  Cousin  Feenix  to  Walter,  in  increasing 
agitation. 

"  My  love,"  said  Walter,  "  there  is  nothing  the  matter." 

"There  is  nothing  the  matter,  upon  my  honor,"  said  Cousin 
Feenix;  "and  I  am  deeply  distressed  at  being  the  means  of 
causing  you  a  moment's  uneasiness.  I  beg  to  assure  you  that 
there  is  nothing  the  matter.  The  favor  that  I  have  to  ask  is 
simply — but  it  really  docs  seem  so  exceeding  singular,  that  I 
should  be  in  the  last  degree  obliged  to  my  friend  Gay  if  he 
would  have  the  goodness  to  break  the — in  point  of  fact,  the 
ice,"  said  Cousin  Feenix. 

Walter  thus  appealed  to,  and  appealed  to  no  less  in  the  look 
that  Florence  turned  towards  him,  said : 


RkU-.iVTlNG.  Rat 

"  My  clearest,  it  is  no  more  than  this.  That  you  will  lide  to 
London  with  this  j^^entleinan,  wliom  you  know." 

"And  my  friend  Gay,  also — I  bejj  your  pardon  !  "  interrupted 
Cousin  Feenix. 

" — And  with  me — and  make  a  visit  somewhere." 

"To  whom?"  asked  Florence,  looking  from  one  to  the 
other. 

"Iff  might  entreat,"  said  Cousin  Feenix,  "  that  you  wool.', 
not  press  for  an  answer  to  that  (piestion,  1  would  venture  to 
take  the  liberty  of  making  the  rec|uest." 

"  Do_>w/  know,  Walter.^  "  said  Florence. 

"  Yes.' 

"  And  think  it  right  ?  " 

"Yes.  Only  because  1  am  sure  that  you  would  loo.  Though 
there  may  be  reasons  I  very  well  understand,  which  make  it 
better  that  nothing  more  should  be  said  beforeliand." 

"  If  Tapa  is  still  asleep,  or  can  spare  me  if  he  is  awake,  I 
will  go  immediately,"  said  Florence.  And  rising  c|uielly,  and 
glancing  at  them  with  a  look  that  was  a  little  alarmed  but 
perfectly  confiding,  left  the  room. 

When  she  came  back,  ready  to  bear  them  company,  they 
were  talking  together,  gravely,  at  the  window  ;  and  Horence 
couUl  not  but  wonder  what  the  topic  was,  that  had  made  tlien^ 
so  well  acquainted  in  so  short  a  time  She  did  not  wonder  at 
the  look  of  pride  ami  love  with  which  her  husband  broke  otT  as 
she  entered  ,  for  she  never  saw  him,  but  that  rested  on  her. 

"  I  will  leave,'  said  Cousin  Feenix,  "a  card  for  my  friend 
Dombey,  sincerely  trusting  that  he  will  pick  up  health  and 
strength  with  e\ery  returning  hour.  And  I  hope  my  friend 
Dombey  will  do  me  the  fa\or  to  consider  me  a  man  who  has  a 
devilish  warm  admiration  of  his  ciiaracter.  as,  m  point  of  fact, 
a  British  merchant  and  a  devilish  upright  gentleman.  My 
place  in  the  country  is  in  a  most  confounded  state  of  dila|)ida 
tion,  but  if  my  friend  Dombey  should  require  a  change  of  air, 
and  would  take  up  his  quarters  there,  he  would  find  it  a 
remarkably  healthy  spot — as  it  need  be,  for  it's  amazingly  dull. 
If  my  friend  Dombey  suders  from  bodily  weakness,  and  would 
allow  me  to  tecommend  what  lias  freciucntly  done  myself  good, 
as  a  man  who  has  been  extremely  queer  at  times,  and  who  hved 
pretty  freely  in  the  days  when  men  lived  very  freely,  I  should 
say,  let  it  be  in  point  of  fact  the  yolk  of  an  e.%'2,,  beat  up  with 
sugar  and  nutmeg,  in  a  glass  of  sherry,  and  taken  in  the  morn- 
ing with  a  slice  of  dry  toast.  Jackson,  who  kejjt  the  boxing- 
rooms  in   Dond   Street  —  man  of  very  superior  qualilicaiions^ 


iii  bOMl;E  V  A A'D  SOIV. 

with  whose  reputation  my  friend  Gay  is  no  doubt  acquainted- 
used  to  mention  that  in  traiinn^  for  the  ring  they  substituted 
ruin  lor  sherry.  I  should  leeonnnend  sherry  in  this  case,  on 
account  of  my  friend  Dombey  being  in  an  invalided  condition; 
wliicli  might  occasion  rum  to  lly — in  point  of  fact  to  his  head— 
and  throw  him  into  a  devil  of  a  state." 

Of  all  this,  Cousin  Feenix  delivered  himself  with  an  ob- 
viously nervous  and  discomposed  air.  Then,  giving  his  arm  to 
Florence,  and  puttmg  the  strongest  possible  constraint  upou 
liis  wilful  legs  which  seemed  determined  to  go  out  into  the 
garden,  he  led  her  to  the  door,  and  handed  her  into  a  carriage 
that  was  ready  for  her  reception. 

Walter  entered  after  him,  and  they  drove  away. 

Their  ride  was  si'x  or  eight  miles  long.  When  they  arove 
through  certain  dull  and  stately  streets,  lying  westward  in 
London,  it  was  growing  dusk.  Florence  had,  by  this  time,  put 
her  hand  in  Walter's  :  and  was  looking  very  earnestl}-,  and 
with  increasing  agitation,  into  every  new  street  into  which  they 
turned. 

When  the  carriage  stopped,  at  last,  before  that  house  in 
Brook  Street,  where  her  father's  unhappy  marriage  had  been 
celebrated,  Florence  said,  "  Walter,  what  is  this  ?  Who  is  here  ?  " 
Walter  cheering  her,  and  not  replying,  she  glanced  up  at  the 
house-front,  and  saw  that  all  the  windows  were  shut,  as  if  it 
were  uninhabited.  Cousin  Feenix  had  by  this  time  alighted, 
and  was  offering  his  hand. 

"  Are  you  not  coming,  Walter?  " 

"No,  I  will  remain  here.  Don't  tremble  !  there  is  nothing 
to  fear,  dearest  Florence." 

"  I  know  that,  Walter,  with  you  so  near.  I  am  sure  of  that, 
but " 

'i'he  door  was  softly  opened,  without  any  knock,  and  Cousin 
Fecmx  led  her  out  of  the  summer  evening  air  into  the  close 
dull  house.  More  sombre  and  brown  than  ever,  it  seemed  to 
liave  been  shut  up  from  the  wedding  day,  and  to  have  hoarded 
darkness  and  sadness  ever  since. 

I'loreiice  ascended  the  dusky  staircase,  trembling;  and 
stopped,  with  her  conductor,  at  the  drawing-room  door,  lie 
opened  it,  without  s|)eaking,  and  signed  an  entreaty  to  iier  to 
advance  into  the  inner  room,  while  he  remained  there.  Flor- 
ence, after  hesitating  an  instant,  complied. 

Silting  by  the  window  at  a  table,  where  she  seemed  to  have 
been  writing  or  drawing,  was  a  lady,  whose  head,  turned  away 
towards  the  dying  light,  was  resting  on  her  hand.     Florence 


RELEiXTrXG.  82^ 

advancing,  doubtfully,  all  at  once  stood  still,  as  if  she  had  lost 
the  power  of  motion,     'liic  lady  turned  her  head 

'*  Great  Heaven  ! "'  she  said,  "  what  is  this  ?  " 

"No,  no  !  "  cried  Florence,  shrinking  back  as  she  rose  up 
and  putting  out  her  hands  to  keep  her  off      "  Mama  !  " 

They  stood  looking  at  each  other.  Passion  and  pride  had 
worn  it,  but  it  was  the  face  of  lulilh,  and  beautiful  and  stately 
vet.  It  was  the  face  of  Florence,  and  through  all  the  terrified 
avoidance  it  expressed,  there  was  pity  in  it,  sorrow,  a  grateful 
lender  memory.  On  eacii  face,  wonder  and  feat  were  painted 
vividly  ,  each  so  still  and  silent,  looking  at  the  other  over  the 
black  gulf  of  the  irrevocable  past. 

Florence  was  the  first  to  change.  Bursting  into  tears,  she 
said  from  her  full  heart,  "'Oh,  Mama,  Mama'  why  do  we  meet 
like  this  1  Why  were  you  e\er  kind  to  me  when  tliere  was  no 
one  else,  that  we  should  meet  like  this  ?" 

Fdith  stood  before  her,  dumb  and  motionless.  Her  eyes 
were  fixed  upon  hei  face. 

"I  dare  not  think  of  that,"  said  Florence,"!  am  come 
from  Papa's  sick  bed.  We  are  never  asunder  now  ;  we  never 
shall  be,  any  more.  If  you  would  have  me  ask  his  pardon,  I 
will  do  it,  Mama.  I  am  almost  sure  he  will  gram  it  now,  if  I 
ask  him.     May  Hea\en  grant  it  to  you,  too,  and  comfort  you  !  " 

She  answered  not  a  word. 

*'  Walter — I  am  married  to  him,  and  we  have  a  son  " — said 
Florence,  timidly  "is  at  the  door,  and  has  brought  me  here.  I 
will  tell  him  that  you  are  repentant  ;  that  you  are  clianged," 
said  I'lorcnce,  looking  mournfully  upon  her;  "and  he  will 
.speak  to  Papa  with  me,  I  know.  Is  there  anything  but  this 
that  I  can  do  .'  " 

Fdith,  breaking  her  silence,  without  moving  eye  or  limb, 
answered  sU)wly  : 

"The  stain  upon  your  name,  upt)n  your  husband's,  on  your 
child's.     Will  that  ever  be  forgiven,  Florence  }  " 

"Will  ii  ever  be.  Mama  .?  It  is!  I'reely,  freely,  both  by 
Walter  and  by  me.  If  tiiat  is  any  consolation  to  you,  tlierc  is 
nothing  that  you  may  believe  more  certainly.  "\'ou  do  not — 
you  do  not,''  faltered  Morence.  "  speak  of  Papa  ,  but  I  am 
sure  you  wish  that  I  should  ask  him  for  his  forgiveness.  I  am 
sure  you  do  " 

She  answered  not  a  word. 

"  I  will  1  "  said  Florence.  "  I  will  bring  it  you,  if  you  will 
Jet  me  ,  and  then,  perhaps,  we  may  take  leave  of  each  other, 
more  like  ^yhat  we  used  to  be  to  op?  another.    1  hav«  not,'" 


824  DOMBEY  AND  SON 

said  Florencn  very  gently,  and  drawing  nearer  to  her,  "  I  hav3 
not  shrunk  back  from  you,  Mama,  because  1  fear  you,  or 
because  I  dread  to  be  disgraced  by  you.  I  only  wish  to  do  my 
duty  to  Papa.  1  am  very  dear  to  him,  and  he  is  very  dear  to 
me.  But  I  never  can  forget  that  you  were  very  good  to  me. 
Oh,  pray  to  Heaven,"  cried  Florence,  falling  on  her  bosom, 
"  pray  to  Heaven,  Mama,  to  forgive  you  all  this  sin  and  shame, 
and  to  forgive  me  if  f  cannot  help  doing  this  (if  it  is  wrong), 
when  I  remember  what  you  used  to  be  ! '' 

Edith,  as  if  she  fell  beneath  her  touch,  sunk  down  on  her 
knees,  and  caught  her  round  the  neck. 

"  Florence!  "  she  cried.  "  My  better  angel  !  Before  I  am 
mad  again,  before  my  stubbornness  comes  back  and  strikes  me 
dumb,  believe  me,  upon  my  soul  I  am  innocent." 

"  Mama  !  " 

"  Guilty  of  much  !  Guilty  of  that  which  sets  a  w  aste  between 
us  evermore.  Guilty  of  what  must  separate  me,  through  the 
whole  remainder  of  my  life,  from  purity  and  innocence — from 
you,  of  all  the  earth.  Guilty  of  a  blind  and  passionate  resent- 
ment, of  which  I  do  not,  cannot,  will  not,  even  now,  repent ; 
but  not  guilty  with  that  dead  man.     Before  God  !  " 

Upon  her  knees  upon  the  ground,  she  held  up  both  her 
hands,  and  swore  it. 

"  Florence  !  "  she  said,  "  purest  and  best  of  natures, — whom 
I  love — who  might  have  changed  me  long  ago,  and  did  for  a 
time  work  some" change  even  in  the  woman  that  I  am, — believe 
me,  1  am  innocent  of  that ;  and  once  more,  on  my  desolate 
heart,  let  me  lay  this  dear  head,  for  the  last  time  !  " 

Siie  was  moved  and  weeping.  Had  she  been  oftener  thus 
in  older  days,  she  had  been  happier  now. 

"  There  is  nothing  el.'^e  in  all  the  world,"  she  said,  "  that 
would  ha\  e  wrung  denial  from  me.  No  love,  no  hatred,  no 
hope,  no  threat.  I  said  that  1  would  die,  and  make  no  sign.  I 
could  have  done  so,  and  1  would  if  we  had  never  met,  Flor- 
ence." 

"  I  trust,"  said  Cousin  Feenix,  ambling  in  at  the  door,  and 
speaking,  half  in  the  room,  and  half  out  of  it,  "  that  my  lovely 
and  accomplished  relative  will  e.xcuse  my  having,  by  a  little 
stratagem,  effected  this  meeting.  I  cannot  say  that  I  was,  at 
first,  wholly  incredulous  as  to  the  possibility  of  my  lovely  and 
accomplished  relative  having,  very  unfortunately,  committed 
herself  with  the  deceased  person  with  white  teeth  ;  because,  in 
point  of  fact,  one  does  see,  in  this  world — which  is  remarkable 
for  devilish  strange  arrangements,  and  for  being  decidedly  the 


KKLKNTIA'G.  825 

most  unintelligible  thing  within  a  man's  experience — very  odd 
conjunctions  of  that  sort.  lUit  as  I  mentioned  to  my  friend 
Dombey,  I  could  not  admit  the  criminality  of  my  lovely  and 
accomplished  relative  until  it  was  perfectly  established.  And 
feeling,  when  the  deceased  person  was,  in  point  of  fact,  de- 
stroyed in  a  devilish  horrible  manner,  that  her  position  was  a 
very  painful  one — and  feeling,  besides,  that  our  family  had  been 
a  little  to  blame  in  not  paying  more  attention  to  her,  and  that 
we  are  a  careless  family — and  also  that  my  aunt,  though  a 
devilish  lively  woman,  had,  perhaps,  not  been  the  very  best  of 
mothers — I  took  the  liberty  of  seeking  her  in  France,  and  offer- 
ing her  such  protection  as  a  man  very  much  out  at  elbows 
could  offer.  Upon  which  occasion,  my  lovely  and  accomplished 
relative  did  me  the  honor  to  express  that  she  believed  I  was, 
in  my  way,  a  devilish  good  sort  of  fellow  ;  and  that,  therefore, 
she  put  herself  under  my  protection.  Which,  in  point  of  fact, 
I  understood  to  be  a  kind  thing  on  the  part  of  my  lovely  and 
accomplished  relative,  as  I  am  getting  extremely  shaky,  and 
have  derived  great  comfort  from  her  solicitude." 

Edith,  who  had  taken  Florence  to  a  sofa,  made  a  gesture 
with  her  hand  as  if  she  would  have  begged  him  to  say  no  more. 

"  My  lovely  and  accomplished  relative,"  resumed  Cousin 
Feenix,  still  ambling  about  at  the  door,  "  will  excuse  me,  if,  for 
her  satisfaction,  and  my  own,  and  that  of  my  friend  Dombey, 
whose  lovely  and  accomplished  daughter  we  so  much  admire, 
I  complete  the  thread  of  my  observations.  She  will  remember 
that,  from  the  first,  she  and  I  have  never  alluded  to  the  subject 
of  her  elopement.  My  impression,  certainly,  has  always  been, 
that  there  was  a  mystery  in  the  affair  which  she  could  explain, 
if  so  inclined.  But  my  lovely  and  accomplished  relative  licing 
a  devilish  resolute  woman,  I  knew  that  she  was  not,  in  point  of 
fact,  to  be  trified  with,  and  therefore  did  not  involve  myself  in 
any  discussions.  But,  observing  lately  that  her  accessible  point 
did  appear  to  be  a  very  strong  description  of  tenderness  for  the 
daughter  of  my  friend  Dombey,  it  occurred  to  me  that  if  I 
could  bring  about  a  meeting,  unexpected  on  both  sides,  it  might 
lead  to  beneficial  results.  Therefore,  we  being  in  London,  in 
the  present  private  way,  before  going  to  the  South  of  Italy, 
there  to  establish  ourselves,  in  point  of  fact,  until  we  go  to  our 
long  homes,  which  is  a  devilish  disagreeable  reflection  for  a 
man,  I  applied  myself  to  the  discovery  of  the  residence  of  my 
friend  Cay — handsome  man  of  an  uncommonly  frank  disposi- 
tion, who  is  probably  known  to  my  lovely  and  accom]ilishcd 
relative — and  had  the  happiness  of  bringing  his  amiable  wife 


826  DoMntY  AND  SON. 

to  the  present  place.  And  now,"  said  Cousin  Feenix,  with  a 
real  and  genuine  earnestness  shining  through  the  levity  of  his 
manner  and  his  slipshod  speech,  "  I  do  conjure  my  relative, 
not  to  stop  half  way,  but  to  set  right,  as  far  as  she  can,  what- 
ever she  has  done  wrong — not  for  the  honor  of  her  family,  not 
for  her  own  fame,  not  for  any  of  those  considerations  whicl: 
unfortunate  circumstances  have  induced  her  to  regard  as  hol- 
low, and  in  point  of  fact,  as  approaching  to  humbug — but  be- 
cause it  is  wrong,  and  not  right." 

Cousin  Feenix's  legs  consented  to  take  him  away  after  this  ; 
and  leaving  them  alone  together,  he  shut  the  door. 

Edith  remained  silent  for  some  minutes,  with  Florence  sit- 
ting close  beside  her.  Then  she  took  from  her  bosom  a  sealed 
paper. 

"  I  debated  with  myself  a  long  time,"  she  said  in  a  low 
voice,  "  whether  to  write  this  at  all,  in  case  of  dying  suddenly 
or  by  accident,  and  feeling  the  want  of  it  upon  me,  I  have  de- 
liberated, ever  since,  when  and  how  to  destroy  it.  Take  it, 
Florence,     The  truth  is  written  in  it." 

"  Is  it  for  Papa  "i  "  asked  Florence. 

"  It  is  for  whom  you  will,"  she  answered.  "  It  is  given  to 
you,  and  is  obtained  by  you.  He  never  could  have  had  it 
otherwise." 

Again  they  sat  silent,  in  the  deepening  darkness. 

"  Mama,"  said  Florence,  "  he  has  lost  his  fortune  ;  he  has 
been  at  the  pomt  of  death  ;  he  may  not  recover,  even  now.  Is 
there  any  word  that  I  shall  say  to  him  from  you  ?  " 

"  Did  you  tell  me,"  asked  Edith,  "  that  you  were  very  dear 
to  him  ? " 

"  Yes!"  said  Florence,  in  a  thrilling  voice. 

"  Tell  him  I  am  sorry  that  we  ever  met." 

"  No  more  t  "  said  Florence  af<.er  a  pause. 

"  Tell  him,  if  he  asks,  that  I  do  not  repent  of  what  I  have 
(lone — not  yet — for  if  it  were  to  do  again  to-morrow,  I  should 
do  it.     But  if  he  is  a  chani;ed  man — " 

She  stopped.  There  was  something  in  the  silent  touch  of 
Florence's  hand  that  stopped  her. 

'« — But  that  being  a  changed  man,  he  knows,  now,  it  would 
never  be.     Tell  him  1  wish  it  never  had  been." 

"  May  I  say,"  said  Florence,  "  that  you  grieved  to  hear  of 
the  aflliclions  he  has  suffered  ?  " 

"  Not,"  she  replied,  "  if  they  have  taught  him  that  his 
daughter  is  very  dear  to  him.  He  will  not  grieve  for  them 
himself,  one  day,  if  they  have  brought  that  lesson,  Florence." 


HKLEXTtXC. 


83, 


"You  wish  well  to  him,  and  would  Iiave  him  happy.  I  am 
sure  you  would!  "  said  I'lorence.  "Oh  !  let  me  be  able,  if  I 
have  the  occasion  at  some  future  time,  to  say  so?  " 

Eflith  sat  with  her  dark  eyes  gazing  steadfastly  before  her, 
and  did  not  reply  until  Florence  had  repeated  her  entreaty  ; 
when  she  drew  her  hand  within  her  arm,  and  said,  with  the 
same  thouc;htful  ^Mze  upon  the  night  outside  : 

"  Tell  him  that  if,  in  his  own  present,  he  can  find  any  rea 
son  to  compp.ssioiuxte  my  past,  I  sent  word  that  I  asked  him  to 
do  so.  Tell  him  that  if,  in  his  own  present,  he  can  find  a  rea- 
son to  think  less  bitterly  of  me,  I  asked  him  to  do  so.  Tell 
him,  that,  dead  as  we  are  to  one  another,  never  more  to  meet 
on  this  side  of  eternity,  he  knows  there  is  one  feeling  in  com- 
mon between  us  now,  that  there  never  was  before," 

Her  sternness  seemed  to  yield,  and  there  were  tears  in  her 
dark  eyes. 

"  I  trust  myself  to  that,"  she  said,  "  for  his  better  thoughts 
of  me,  and  mine  of  him.  When  he  loves  his  Florence  most,  he 
will  hate  me  least.  When  he  is  most  proud  and  happy  in  her  and 
her  children,  he  will  be  most  repentant  of  his  own  part  in  the 
dark  vision  of  our  married  life.  At  that  time,  I  will  be  repentant 
too— let  him  know  it  then — and  think  that  when  I  thought  so 
much  of  all  the  causes  that  had  made  me  what  I  was,  I  needed 
to  have  allowed  more  for  the  causes  that  had  made  him  what 
he  was.  I  will  try,  then,  to  forgive  him  his  share  of  blame. 
Let  him  try  to  forgive  me  mine  !  " 

"Oh  Mama  !"  said  Florence.  "  How  it  lightens  my  heart, 
even  in  such  a  meeting  and  parting,  to  hear  this  !" 

"  Strange  words  in  my  own  ears,"  said  Edith,  "  and  foreign 
to  the  sound  of  my  own  voice  !  Ikit  even  if  I  had  been  the 
wretched  creature  I  have  given  him  occasion  to  believe  me, 
I  think  I  could  have  said  them  still,  hearing  that  you  and 
he  were  very  dear  to  one  another.  Let  him,  when  you  are 
dearest,  ever  feel  that  he  is  most  forbeanng  in  his  thoughts 
of  me — that  I  am  most  forbearing  in  my  thoughts  of  him  ! 
Those  are  the  last  words  I  send  him  !  Now,  {rood-bv,  mr 
hfe  ! 

She  clasped  her  in  her  arms,  and  seemed  to  pour  out  all  her 
woman's  soul  of  love  and  tenderness  at  once. 

"  This  kiss  for  your  child !  These  kisses  for  a  blessing 
on  your  head  !  My  own  dear  Florence,  my  sweet  girl,  fare- 
well !  " 

"To  meet  again  !  "  cried  Florence." 

"  Never  a;^ain  !     Never  again  !      When  you  leave  me  in  this 


8^8  2)  OiVRE  \  ■  A  XD  SON. 

dark  room,  think  that  you  have  left  me  in  the  grave.  Remem- 
ber only  that  I  was  once,  and  that  I  loved  you  !  " 

Ancl  Florence  left  her,  seeing  her  face  no  more,  but  accom- 
panied by  her  embraces  and  caresses  to  the  last. 

Cousin  Feenix  met  her  at  the  door,  and  took  her  down  to 
Walter  in  the  dingy  dining-room  :  upon  whose  shoulder  she  laid 
her  head  weeping. 

"  I  am  devilish  sorry,"  said  Cousin  Feenix,  lifting  his  wrist- 
bands to  his  eyes  in  the  simplest  manner  possible,  and  without 
the  least  concealment,  "  that  the  lovely  and  accomplished 
daughter  of  my  friend  Dombey,  and  amiable  wife  of  my  friend 
Gay,  should  have  had  her  sensitive  nature  so  very  much  dis- 
tressed and  cut  up  by  the  interview  which  is  just  concluded.  But 
I  hope  and  trust  I  have  acted  for  the  best,  and  that  my  honor- 
able friend  Dombey  will  find  his  mind  relieved  by  the  disclos- 
ures which  have  taken  place.  I  exceedingly  lament  that  my 
friend  Dombey  should  have  got  himself,  in  point  of  fact,  into 
the  devil's  own  state  of  conglomeration  by  an  alliance  with  our 
family ;  but  am  strongly  of  opinion  that  if  it  hadn't  been  for 
the  infernal  scoundrel  Barker — man  with  white  teeth — every- 
thing would  have  gone  on  pretty  smoothly.  In  regard  to  my 
relatives  who  does  me  the  honor  to  have  formed  an  uncommonly 
good  opinion  of  myself,  I  can  assure  the  amiable  wife  of  my 
friend  Gay,  that  she  may  rely  on  my  being,  in  point  of  fact,  a 
father  to  her.  And  in  regard  to  the  changes  of  human  life, 
and  the  extraordinary  manner  in  which  we  are  perpetually  con- 
ducting ourselves,  all  I  can  say  is,  with  my  friend  Shakespeare 
— man  who  wasn't  for  an  age  but  for  all  time,  and  with  whom 
my  friend  Gay  is  no  doubt  acquainted — that  it's  like  the  shadov) 
of  a  dream." 


CHAPTER  LXIL 


A  BOTTLE  that  has  been  long  excluded  from  the  light  of 
day,  and  is  hoary  with  dust  and  cobwebs,  iuis  been  brou^lit 
into  the  sunshine  ;  and  the  goklen  wine  within  it  sheds  a  lustre 
c.n  Ihi;  table. 

It  is  the  last  bottle  of  the  old  Madeira. 


FI^'Ar..  829 

"You  are  quite  right,  Mr.  Gills,"  says  Mr.  Domhey.  "This 
Is  a  very  rare  and  most  delicious  wine." 

The  Captain,  who  is  of  tlic  party,  beams  with  joy.  There 
is  a  very  halo  of  delight  round  his  glowing  forehead. 

"We  always  promised  ourselves,  sir,"  observes  Mr.  GilLs, 
"  Ned  and  myself,  I  mean " 

Mr.  Domhey  nods  at  the  Captain,  who  shines  more  and 
more  with  speechless  gratification. 

— "that  we  would  drink  this,  one  day  or  other,  to  Walter 
safe  at  home  :  though  such  a  home  we  never  thought  of.  If 
you  don't  object  to  our  old  whim,  sir,  let  us  devote  this  first 
glass  to  Walter  and  his  wife." 

"  To  Walter  and  his  wife  !  "  says  Mr.  Dombey.  "  Florence, 
my  child  " — and  turns  to  kiss  her. 

"  To  Walter  and  his  wife  !  "  says  Mr.  Toots. 

"To  Wal'r  and  his  wife  !  "  exclaims  the  Captain.  "  Hoo- 
roar !  "  and  the  Captain,  exhibiting  a  strong  desire  to  clink  his 
glass  against  some  other  glass,  Mr.  Dombey,  with  a  ready 
hand,  holds  out  his.  The  others  follow  ;  and  there  is  a  blithe 
and  merry  ringing,  as  of  a  peal  of  marriage  bells. 

Other  buried  wine  growls  older,  as  the  old  Madeira  did  in 
its  time ;  and  dust  and  cobwebs  thicken  on  the  bottles. 

Mr.  Dombey  is  a  white-haired  gentleman,  whose  face  bears 
heavy  marks  of  care  and  suffering ;  but  they  are  traces  of  a 
storm  that  has  passed  on  for  ever,  and  left  a  clear  evening  in 
its  track. 

Ambitious  projects  trouble  him  no  more.  His  only  pride 
is  in  his  daughter  and  her  husband.  He  has  a  silent,  tliought- 
ful,  quiet  manner,  and  is  always  with  his  daughter.  Miss  Tox 
is  not  unfrequently  of  the  family  party,  and  is  quite  devoted 
to  it,  and  a  great  favorite.  Her  admiration  of  her  once  stately 
patron  is,  and  has  been  ever  since  the  morning  of  heV 
shock  in  Princess's  Place,  platonic,  but  not  weakened  in  the 
least. 

Nothing  has  drifted  to  him  from  the  wreck  of  his  fortunes 
but  a  certain  annual  sum  that  comes  he  knows  not  how,  with 
an  earnest  entreaty  that  he  will  not  seek  to  discover,  and  with 
the  assurance  that  it  is  a  debt,  and  an  act  of  reparation.  He 
has  consulted  with  his  old  clerk  about  this,  who  is  clear  it  may 
be  honorably  accei)tecl,  and  has  no  doubt  it  arises  out  of  some 
forgotten  transaction  in  the  times  of  the  old  House. 

That  hazel-eyed  bachelor,  a  bachelor  no  more,  is  married 
now  and  tg  the  sister  gf  the  gray-haired  Junior.     He  visits  liis 


g^o  DOMBEY  AND  SO.V.. 

old  chief  sometimes,  but  seldom.  There  is  a  reason  in  th« 
gray-haired  Junior's  history,  and  yet  a  stronger  reason  in  his 
name,  why  he  should  keep  retired  from  his  old  employer  ;  and 
as  he  lives  with  his  sister  and  her  husband,  they  participate  in 
that  retirement.  Walter  sees  them  sometimes— Florence  too — 
and  the  pleasant  house  resounds  with  profound  duets  ar- 
ranged for  the  Piano-Forte  and  Violoncello,  and  with  the  labors 
of  Harmonious  IJlacksmiths. 

And  how  goes  the  wooden  Midshipman  in  these  changed 
days  ?  Why,  here  he  -still  is,  right  leg  foremost,  hard  at  work 
upon  the  hackney  coaches,  and  more  on  the  alert  than  ever, 
being  newly-painted  from  his  cocked  hat  to  his  buckled  shoes  ; 
and  up  above  him,  in  golden  characters,  these  names  shine  re- 
fulgent. Gills  and  Cuttle. 

Not  another  stroke  of  business  does  the  Midshipman 
achieve  beyond  his  usual  easy  trade.  But  they  do  say,  in  a 
circuit  of  some  half-mile  round  the  blue  umbrella  in  Leadenhall 
Market,  that  some  of  Mr.  Gills's  old  investments  are  coming  out 
wonderfully  well;  and  that  instead  of  being  behind  the  time  in 
those  respects,  as  he  supposed,  he  was,  in  truth,  a  little  before 
it,  and  had  to  wait  the  fulness  of  the  time  and  the  design.  The 
whisper  is  that  Mr.  Gills's  money  has  begun  to  turn  itself,  and 
that  it  is  turning  itself  over  and  over  pretty  briskly.  Certain  it 
is  that,  standing  at  his  shopdoor,  in  his  coffee-colored  suit,  with 
his  chronometer  in  his  pocket  and  his  spectacles  on  his  fore- 
liead,  he  don't  appear  to  break  his  heart  at  customers  not  com- 
ing, but  looks  very  jovial  and  contented,  though  full  as  misty 
as  of  yore. 

As  to  his  partner.  Captain  Cuttle,  there  is  a  fiction  of  a  busi- 
ness in  the  Captain's  mind  which  is  better  than  any  reality. 
The  Captain  is  as  satisfied  of  the  Midshipman's  importance  to 
the  commerce  and  navigation  of  the  country,  as  he  could  pos- 
sibly be,  if  no  ship  left\he  Port  of  London  without  the  Mid- 
shipman's assistance.  His  delight  in  his  own  name  oyer  the 
door,  is  inexhaustible.  He  crosses  the  street,  twenty  times  a 
day,  to  look  at  it  from  the  other  side  of  the  way  \  and  invari- 
ably says,  on  these  occasions,  "Ed'ard  Cuttle,  my  lad,  if  your 
mother  could  ha'  know'd  as  you  would  ever  be  a  man  o 
science,  the  good  old  creetur  would  ha' been  took  aback  in- 
deed !  "  •  •  u 

But  here  is  Mr.  Toots  descending  on  the  Midshipman  with 
violent  rapidity,  and  Mr.  Toots's  face  is  very  red  as  he  bursts 
bto  the  little  parlor. 

♦'Captain   Gills,"  savs  Mr.  Toots,  "and  Mr.  Sols,  \  311) 


FtSAt.  H3t 

happy  to  inform  you  that   Mrs,  Toot«   has  had  ui  increase  to 
her  family." 

"  And  it  does  her  credit !  "  cries  the  Captain. 

"  I  j^ive  you  joy,  Mr.  Toots  !  "  says  old  Sol. 

"Thank'ee,"  chuckles  Mr.  Toots,"  I'm  very  much  obliged 
to  you.  I  knew  that  you'd  be  glad  to  hear,  and  so  I  came 
clown  myself.  We're  positively  getting  on,  you  know.  There's 
Florence,  and  Susan,  and  now  here's  another  little  stranger." 

"  A  female  stranger  ?  "  inquires  the  Captain. 

"Yes,  Captain  C.ills,"  says  Mr.  Toots,  "  and  I'm  glad  of  it. 
The  oftener  we  can  repeat  that  most  extraordinary  woman,  my 
opinion  is,  the  better!  " 

"  Stand  by !  "  says  the  Captain,  turning  to  the  old  case 
bottle  with  no  throat — for  it  is  evening,  and  the  Midshipman's 
usual  moderate  provision  of  pipes  and  glasses  is  on  the  board. 
"  Here's  to  her,  and  may  she  have  ever  so  many  more  !  " 

"  Thank'ee,  Captain  Gills,"  says  the  delighted  Mr.  Toots. 
"  I  echo  the  sentiment.  If  you'll  allow  me,  as  my  so  doing 
cannot  be  unpleasant  to  anybody,  under  the  circumstances, 
I  think  I'll  take  a  pipe. 

Mr.  Toots  begins  to  smoke,  accordingly,  and  in  the  open- 
ness of  his  heart  is  very  loquacious. 

"Of  all  the  remarkable  instances  that  that  delightful  wo- 
man has  given  of  her  excellent  sense.  Captain  Gills  and  Mr. 
Sols,"  says  Toots,  "  I  think  none  is  more  remarkable  than  the 
perfection  with  which  she  has  understood  my  devotion  to  Miss 
Dombey." 

Both  his  auditors  assent. 

"  Because,  you  know,"  says  Mr.  Toots,  "  /  have  never 
changed  my  sentiments  towards  Miss  Dombey.  'JTiey  are  the 
same  as  ever.  She  is  the  same  bright  vision  to  me,  at  present, 
that  she  was  before  I  made  Walter's  acquai'itance.  When 
Mrs.  Toots  and  myself  first  began  to  talk  of — in  short,  of  the 
tender  passion,  you  know,  Captain  Gills." 

"  Ay,  ay,  my  lad,"  says  the  Captain.  "  as  makes  us  aL' 
slue  round — for  which  you'll  overhaul  the  book — " 

"  I  shall  certainly  do  so.  Captain  Gills,"  says  Mr.  Toots, 
with  great  earnestness  ;  "when  we  first  began  to  mention  such 
subjects,  I  explained  that  I  was  what  you  may  call  a  Blighted 
Flower,  you  know." 

The  Captain  approves  of  this  figure  greatly  ;  and  murmurs 
that  no  flower  as  blows,  is  like  the  rose. 

"But  Lord  bless  me,'  pursues  Mr.  Toots,  "  she  was  as  en 
tirely  conscious  of  the  state  of  my  feelings  as  J  was  rn)'!»«l 


832  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

There  was  nothing  I  could  tell  her.  She  was  the  only  person 
who  could  have  stood  between  me  and  the  silent  Tomb,  and 
she  did  it,  in  a  manner  to  command  my  everlasting  admiration. 
She  knows  that  there's  nobody  in  the  world  I  look  up  to,  as  I 
do  to  Miss  Dombey.  She  knows  that  there's  nothing  on  earth 
I  wouldn't  do  for  Miss  Dombey.  She  knows  that  I  consider 
Miss  Dombey  the  most  beautiful,  the  most  amiable,  the  most 
angelic  of  her  sex.  What  is  her  observation  upon  that  ?  The 
perfection  of  sense.     '  My  dear,  you're  right     /think  so  too.'  " 

*'  And  so  do  1 1  "  says  the  Captain. 

"  So  do  I,"  says  Sol  Gills. 

"Then,"  resumes  Mr.  Toots,  after  some  contemplative 
pulling  at  his  pipe,  during  which  his  visage  has  expressed  the 
most  contented  reflection,  "  what  an  observant  woman  my  wife 
is  !  What  sagacity  she  possesses  !  What  remarks  she  makes  I 
It  was  only  last  night,  when  we  were  sitting  in  the  enjoyment 
of  connubial  bliss — which,  upon  my  word  and  honor,  is  a 
feeble  term  to  express  my  feelings  in  the  society  of  my  wife — 
that  she  said  how  remarkable  it  was  to  consider  the  present 
position  of  our  friend  Walter.  *  Here,'  observes  my  wife,  '  he 
is,  released  from  sea-going,  after  the  first  long  voyage  with  his 
young  bride  ' — as  you  know  he  was,  Mr.  Sols." 

"  Quite  true,"  says  the  old  Instrument  Maker,  rubbing  his 
h.-uids. 

"  '  Here  he  is,'  says  my  wife,  *  released  from  that,  immedi- 
ately •,  appointed  by  the  same  establishment  to  a  post  of  great 
trust  and  confidence  at  home  ;  showing  himself  again  worthy; 
mountino;  up  the  ladder  with  the  greatest  expedition  ;  beloved 
by  everybody ;  assisted  by  his  uncle  at  the  very  best  possible 
time  of  his  fortunes' — which  I  think  is  the  case,  Mr.  Sols? 
My  wife  is  aWays  correct." 

"  Why  yes,  yes — some  of  our  lost  ships,  freighted  with  gold, 
have  come  home,  truly,"  returns  old  Sol,  laughing.  "  Small 
craft,  Mr.  Toots,  but  serviceable  to  my  boy  1  " 

"  Exactly  so,"  siys  Mr.  Toots.  "  You'll  never  find  my  wife 
wrong.  *  Here  he  is,'  says  that  most  remarkable  woman,  '  so 
situated, — and  what  follows  >  A\'hat  follows  } '  observed  Mrs. 
'i  oots.  Now  pray  remark.  Captain  Gills,  and  Mr.  Sols,  the 
depth  of  my  wife's  penetration.  *  Why  that,  under  the  very  eye 
of  Mr.  Dombey,  is  a  foundation  going  on,  upon  which  a — an 
Edifice  ; '  tliAt  was  Mrs.  Tools's  word,"  says  Mr.  Toots  exulting. 
"  *  is  gradually  rising,  perhaps  to  equal,  perhaps  excel,  that 
of  which  he  was  once  the  head,  and  the  small  beginnings  of 
which  (a  common  fault,  but  a  bad  one,  Mrs.  Toots  said)  e:r 


FINAL.  83  ] 

escaped  his  memory.  Thus,' said  my  wife,  'from  his  daughter 
after  all,  another  Dombey  and  Son  will  ascend  ' — no  'rise;  ' 
that  was  Mrs.  Toots's  word — *  triumphant.'  " 

Mr.  Toots,  with  the  assistance  of  his  pipe — which  he  is  ex- 
tremely glad  to  devote  to  oratorical  purposes,  as  its  proper  use 
affects  him  with  a  very  uncomfortable  sensation — docs  such 
grand  justice  to  this  prophetic  sentence  of  his  wife's  that  the 
Captain,  throwing  away  his  glazed  hat  in  a  state  of  the  greatest 
excitement,  cries  : 

"  Sol  dills,  you  man  of  science  and  my  ould  pardner,  what 
did  I  tell  W'al'r  to  overhaul  on  that  there  night  when  he  first 
took  to  business  1  Was  it  this  here  quotation,  *  Turn  agaia 
Whittington,  Lord  Mayor  of  London,  and  when  you  are  old 
you  will  never  depart  from  it.'  Was  it  them  words,  Sol 
Gills  ?  " 

**  It  certainly  was,  Ned,"  replied  the  Old  Instrument 
Maker.     "  I  remember  well." 

"Then  I  tell  you  what,"  says  the  Captain,  leaning  back  in 
his  chair,  and  composing  his  chest  for  a  prodigious  roar, 
*'  I'll  give  you  lovely  Peg  right  through  ;  and  stand  by,  both  on 
you,  for  the  chorus  1  " 

Buried  wine  grows  older,  as  the  old  Madeira  did  in  its  timr, 
and  dust  and  cobwebs  thicken  on  the  bottles. 

Autumn  days  are  shining,  and  on  the  sea-beach  there  are 
often  a  young  lady,  and  a  white-haired  gentleman.  U'ilh 
them,  or  near  them,  are  two  children  :  boy  and  girl.  And  an 
old  dog  is  generally  in  their  company. 

The  white-haired  gentleman  walks  with  the  little  boy,  talks 
with  him,  helps  him  in  his  play,  attends  upon  him,  ^tatches  him, 
as  if  he  were  the  object  of  his  life.  If  he  be  thoughtful,  the 
white-haired  gentleman  is  thoughtful  too;  and  sometimes  when 
the  child  is  sitting  by  his  side,  and  looks  up  in  his  f.ice,  asking 
him  questions,  he  takes  the  tiny  hand  in  hiS,  and  holding  it, 
forgets  to  answer.     Then  the  child  says  : 

"  What,  grandpapa  !  Am  I  so  like  my  poor  little  uncle 
again  ? " 

"Yes,  Paul.     But  he  was  weak,  and  you  are  very  strong." 

*  Oh  yes,  I  am  very  strong." 

"  And  he  lay  on  a  little  bed  beside  the  sea,  and  you  can 
run  about." 

And  so  they  range  away  again,  busily,  for  the  white-haired 
gentleman  likes  best  to  see  the  child  free  and  stirring;  and  as 


834  DOME EY  AND  SOX. 

they  go  about  together,  the  story  of  the  bond  between  them 
goes  about,  and  follows  them. 

But  no  one,  except  Florence,  knows  the  measure  of  tlie 
white-haired  gentleman's  affection  for  the  girl.  That  story 
never  goes  about.  The  child  herself  almost  wonders  at  a  cer- 
tain secrecy  he  keeps  in  it.  He  hoards  her  in  his  heart.  He 
cannot  bear  to  see  a  cloud  upon  her  face.  He  cannot  bear  to 
see  her  sit  apart.  He  fancies  that  she  feels  a  slight,  when 
there  is  none.  He  steals  away  to  look  at  her  in  her  sleep.  It 
pleases  him  to  have  her  come  and  wake  him  in  the  morning. 
He  is  fondest  of  her,  and  most  loving  to  her,  when  there  is  no 
creature  by.     The  child  says  then,  sometimes  : 

"  Dear  grandpapa,  why  do  you  cry  when  you  kiss  me  ?  " 
He   only   answers    "  Little    Florence  I     Little  Florence  I  ** 
and  smooths  away  the  curls  that  shade  her  earnest  eyes. 


THfiSMX 


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1  Adam  Bcde.     George   Eliot. 

2  Adventures  of  Gil  Bias, 
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4  Alhambra.  The ;  and  the 
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Washington  Irving. 

5  ALICE'S  ai)venturf:s 
IN  WONDERLAND-  and 
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Lewis  Carroll. 

6  All  Sorts  and  Conditions  of 
Men.  Besant  aiid.Ricc. 


Arabian    Nighfj'    Entertain- 
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Ardath  ;     The     Story    of    a 
Dead  SuK-         Marie  Corelli. 

Child's  History  of    PIngland, 
A.  Charles  Dickens. 

Cloister   and    the    Hearth, 
ihe.  Charles  Rcadc. 

CONFESSIONS   OF  AN  EN- 

(iLISH  OPIIM  EATER. 

Thomas  FV-'^uinccy. 
Consuelo.  George  Sand, 


NEW  ILLUSTRATED  "CENTURV"  SKRTES- Continued. 


13  Corinne  ;    Or,    Italy. 

Madame  de  Stael. 

14  Crown   of  Wild  Olive,  The  ; 
and  Sesame  and  Lilies. 

John  Raskin. 

15  Daniel     Deronda. 

George  Eliot. 

16  DATA  OF    ETHICS,  THE. 

Herbert  Spencer. 

17  Da%id  Copperfield. 

Charles  Dickens. 

18  Deemster,  The.     IlallCaine. 

19  Deerslayer,     The. 

J.  Fenimore  Cooper. 

20  DESCENT  OF   MAN,  THE. 

Charles  Darwin. 

11     DIVINE    COMEDY,     THE. 
Dante. 

22  D(jmbey  and  Son. 

Charles  Dickens. 

23  Donovan,  A  Modern  Engish- 
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24  Dove    in  the  Eagle's   Nest, 
The.       Charlotte  M.  Yonge. 

25  East  Lynne  ;  9r,  The  Earl's 
Daughter. 

Mrs.   Henry  Wood. 

26  EMEK.SON'S    ESSAYS,     ist 
and    2nd    Series    iu    l    vol. 

R.  W.  Emerson. 

27  FAUST.    J.  W.  von  Coethe. 

28  FIFTEEN  DECISIVE  BAT- 
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SiV  Edward  S.  Creasy. 


29  Firm    of    Girdlestoiie,    The. 

A.  Conan  Doyle. 

30  FIRST  PRINCIPLES. 

Herbert  Spencer. 

31  FIRST  VIOLIN,  THE. 

Jessie  Fothergill. 

32  Gold  Elsie.  E.  Marlitt. 

33  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  B(  )Y.S, 
THE. 

Judge  J.  P.  Thompson. 

34  Grimm's  Fairy  Tales. 

Brothers  Grimm. 

35  Hardy  Norsemen,  A. 

Edna  Lyail. 

36  Henry  Esmond. 

W.  M.  Thackeray. 

37  Hereward. 

Charles    Kir-gsley. 

38  HLSTORY     OF    CIVILIZA- 
TION IN  EUROPE. 

M.   Guizot. 

39  Holy   Roman  Empire,    The. 

Rt.  Hon.  Jas.  Hryce. 

40  llypatia.    Charles  KingsUy. 

41  In  the  (;olden  Days. 

iMlna   Lyail. 

42  Ivanhoe.      Sir  Walter  ScoH 

43  Jane  Eyre.  Charlotte  Bronte. 

44  John    Halifax,     Gentleman. 

Miss  Mulock. 

45  Kenilworth. 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 

46  Lampligliter,    The. 

Marie  S.  Cummins- 


NEW  n.LUSTRATED  "CENTURY  •'  SERIES-  O.ntini 


47  I«-ist  Days  of  Pompeii,  Tlie. 

Biilwer  I.ytton. 

48  Last  of  the  Mohicans,  The. 

J.  Fenimore  Cooper. 

49  LIFE    OF   CHRIST,    THE. 

Canon  Farrar. 

50  LITTLE  MINISTER,  THE. 

J.  M.  Barrie. 

51  LONGFELLOW'S     POEMS. 

Henry  W.  Longfellow. 

52  Lorna   Doone,    A    Romance 
of  Exmoor. 

R.    D.   Blackmore. 


53     Lucile. 


Owen  Meredith. 


54  Micah    Clarke. 

A.  '"o.nan  Doyle. 

55  Middlemarch.    George  Eliot. 

56  Mill     on     the    Floss,     The. 

George  Eliot. 

57  Moonstone  The. 

Wilkie  Collins. 

58  Natural  Law  in  theSjjiritual 
World.     Henry  Drummond. 

59  Old    Curiosity    Shop.    The. 

Charles  Dickens. 

60  Oliver  Twist. 

Charles  Dickens. 

61  On   the    Heights. 

Berthold  Auerbach. 

62  ORIGIN  OF  SPECIES,  THE 

Charles  Darwin. 

63  OTHER    WORLDS    THAN 
OURS.  Richard  lYcK-tor. 


64  Pathfinder,    The. 

J.   Fenimore  Cooper. 

65  Pickwick  Papers,  The. 

Charles  Dickens. 

66  Pilgrim's      Progress,     The. 

John  Banyan. 

67  Pilot,    The. 

J.   Fenimore  Cooper. 

68  Pioneers,  The, 

J.  Fenimore  Cooper. 

69  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE 
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70  Prairie,    The. 

J.  Fenimore  Cooper. 

71  Robinson   Crusoe. 

Daniel  Defoe. 

72  Romance  of  Two  Worlds,  A 

Marie  Cor*^'''- 


73     Romola. 


George  i-Iiot. 


74  .Scarlet  Letter,  Th»- 

Nathaniel  Kawthorne. 

75  Scottish  Chief',  The. 

Jane  Porter. 

76  Self  Help     Samuel    Smiles. 

77  Seven  Lamps   of    Architec 
ture  The.  Joiin  RusUin. 

78  S'lence   of    Dean    Maitlarxl, 
The.  Maxwell  Gray. 

7«;     Sketch    Book,    The. 

Washington  Irving 

80     SOLDIERS     THREE    AND 
OTHER     STORIES. 

Rudyard  Ki[)lin<;. 


NEW  ILtUSTRATED  "CENTL'RY"  SERIES— Continued. 


8 1  Spy,    The. 

J.  Fenimore  Cooper. 

82  Swiss     Family     Robinson, 
The.       Montolieu  &  Wyss. 

83  Tale    of     Two    Cities,    A. 

Charles  Dicketis. 

84  TALES    FROM    SHAKES- 
PEARE. 

Charles  &  Mary  Lamb. 

85  TENNYSON'S  POEMS. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 

86  Thaddeus  of  Warsaw. 

Jane  Porter. 

87  Thelma,  A  Norwegian  Prin- 
cess. Marie  Corelli. 

i«     THOUSAND     MILES     UP 
THE  NILE,  A. 

.    ■*' ^  Amelia  B.  Edwards. 

89     Twite  Told  Tales. 

IVithaniel  Hawthorne. 


90  Two  Years  Before  the  Mast. 

R.  H.  Dana,  Jr. 

91  UNCLE     TOM'S     CABIN. 

Harriet  Beecher  Stowe. 

92  Vanity   Fair. 

William  M.  Thackeray. 

93  Vendetta,  and  My  Wonder- 
ful Wife.         Marie  Corelli. 

94  Waverley.  Sir  Walter  Scott. 

95  Westward     Ho ! 

Charles  Kingsley. 


96     We  Two. 


Edna  Lyall. 


97  White  Company,  The. 

A.  Conan  Doyle 

98  Whittier's    Poems. 

J.  G.  Whittier. 

99  WIDE,      WIDE    WORLD, 
THE.  Susan  Warner. 

100     Won    By   Waiting. 

Edna  Lyall. 


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